


The Horror Of Our Love

by TheCookieOfDoom



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Brief Roose/Jon, Jon/Robb in later chapters, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Ramsay is his own warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-10-30 00:31:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 27,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10865322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCookieOfDoom/pseuds/TheCookieOfDoom
Summary: Tears soaked Jon’s cheeks as pain blossomed across his body wherever Ramsay touched him, bruises and blood following in his wake. He looked at the other to see cruel glee in his cold blue eyes, his pale lips stretched over his teeth into a grin. There was something in his eyes, something not quite right, a glimmer of insanity. Jon was so afraid of him sometimes. All the time. He didn’t know just how deep that darkness ran, how thick that vein of cruelty was.Jon saw a flash of glinting steel from the corner of his eye, the only warning he got before Ramsay tore through the fabric of his shirt with the blade. Ramsay attacked his neck with teeth, ravaging his pale flesh until it was red and aching and all he could say as his body screamed out for the pain to stop was,“Harder.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings in end notes

Tears soaked Jon’s cheeks as pain blossomed across his body wherever Ramsay touched him, bruises and blood following in his wake. He looked at the other to see cruel glee in his cold blue eyes, his pale lips stretched over his teeth into a grin. There was something in his eyes, something not quite right, a glimmer of insanity. Jon was so afraid of him sometimes. All the time. He didn’t know just how deep that darkness ran, how thick that vein of cruelty was.

Jon saw a flash of glinting steel from the corner of his eye, the only warning he got before Ramsay tore through the fabric of his shirt with the blade. Ramsay attacked his neck with teeth, ravaging his pale flesh until it was red and aching and all he could say as his body screamed out for the pain to stop was,

“ _Harder_.”

Ramsay eagerly obliged, biting his way down Jon’s neck to his shoulder, leaving a trail of marks like roses, indentations like petals in the shape of his teeth sunk into his flesh to stay for days. Jon thought he had to be just as broken, just as fucked up, for craving the things his boyfriend did to him. There hadn’t been a day since Jon surrendered to Ramsay and himself that he wasn’t riddled with bruises, the never ending ache in his body a constant reminder of their relationship. It was a comfort, something real, the pain pulsing with every beat of his heart. Sometimes, deliriously, he would think it felt as if their hearts beat together. Other times, he would think Ramsay didn’t have a heart at all. He couldn’t, not something like him. How could something with a heart hurt someone he claimed to love with such joy?

He sometimes thought Ramsay wanted to kill him. That he _would_ kill him, one day, when Ramsay had tired of him. Then, when Ramsay kicked his legs apart and thrust into his body with too little oil and just too little preparation, he screamed his throat raw, and he didn’t think any more.

***

“I love you,” Ramsay would say, his touch reverent as his hands brushed over Jon’s skin, drawing shivers from him. His skin was stippled with goosebumps from the cold and the anticipation, his pulse visible at his neck where it beat rapidly in anticipation of what Ramsay would do, now that he was tied up and blindfolded and entirely at his mercy. “You know I would never hurt you.”

No, no of course he wouldn’t. He would never hurt Jon, not when he as like this, sweet and caring and gentle, his hands kind as they rubbed up his sides and teased over his nipples delicately. Jon was on edge, waiting for him to snap, he always did. He changed from the sweet boy that had stolen Jon’s heart, into the dark creature that kept it caged, unable to escape no matter how hard it beat against the prison of Jon’s ribs, trying to burst out of his chest just to be away from Ramsay. Jon could feel when the gentleness was gone before Ramsay did anything. It was as if there was a shift in the air, the very atmosphere around them. It became heavy, oppressive, not unlike Ramsay’s touch as his hand settled around his throat, squeezing tight and restricting his breathing until there were flashes of bright spots dancing across his eyelids, his brain starved for oxygen.

Ramsay crooned lovingly in his ear. Jon almost didn’t hear it at first past the rushing of his blood as it pounded in his head.

“My good boy, so sweet, so precious, so beautiful,” Ramsay was saying, his words blurring together until Jon couldn’t make them out individually, but he felt his heart swell at the praise, filled with contentment as Ramsay showered him in compliments. No, he wasn’t a tender lover, but his words were sweet even as his tongue dripped poison and his fingers moved like razorblades down Jon’s chest, scoring thick lines of red into his milky flesh.

“You mark so wonderfully, so lovely.” Jon’s body was his canvas, his blood the paint. Ramsay had turned him into a work of multimedia art, painting him in reds and blues, greens, purples and yellows. His screams were the music tying it all together.

Ramsay pulled away, briefly, and Jon could hear him light a match. Smelled the scent of burning phosphorous and tobacco, heard Ramsay take a deep drag from the cigarette. Then he was on Jon again, one hand fisted in his hair as he kissed him, forcing his mouth open with his tongue. He exhaled, filling Jon’s lungs with smoke, and Jon coughed, smoke curling out around them between their bloody kiss that was more clashing tongues and teeth than anything else. Jon’s lips were swollen and red form the kiss by the time Ramsay finally pulled away for another drag, pulsing and sore. Jon smiled, dazed, his head lolling back. His wrists were throbbing, suspended from them as he was, just barely able to balance on the balls of his feet. The position had him short of breath, but that was all the better, leaving him dizzy, feeling almost as if he were high. He felt lighter than air, like smoke, even as his body weighed heavy on the bones and joints of his wrists where they were chained above him, rubbed raw by the shackles around them.

When Ramsay again came to fill his lungs with smoke, he was ready for it, expecting. He held his breath, feeling the smoke burn his lungs, for as long as he could bare. He felt Ramsay rubbing his thumb up and down the column of his throat, gently stroking, proud. Jon made it precisely a minute and thirty-two seconds before exhaling. He could feel Ramsay smiling without needing to see him.

He cried out when suddenly something was trying to burn through the hollow of his throat, the butt of the cigarette being put out and ground into his flesh, blistering his skin.

“Save your screams, pet, we’re only getting started. We don’t want you to lose your voice too soon, now, do we?” Ramsay asked in that sickly sweet voice of his, like a rotting corpse covered in honey to attract bees and pretty things rather than flies and maggots. And Jon was such a pretty thing that Ramsay had attracted, especially now, adorned in fine jewelry of bruises and cuts and scars that would never fade, permanent symbols of their love etched into his flesh until eventually his skin fell from his bones, rotting and decaying with the rest of him until he was nothing but bone. Ramsay couldn’t have that; he wanted Jon’s body to show proof of what they had been for all eternity, even once they were themselves no more.

It was with a shine in his eyes that he freed Jon’s left arm, hushing him gently as he kissed his raw wrist. Then he twisted and twisted and twisted until he heard the chorus of cracking and crunching and screaming all woven together in a symphony of agony. He stopped, listened to Jon’s sweet sounds, his pleading dripping like honey from his lips, and ground the bones together one more, listening to the sound they made. He could barely hear them past Jon;s voice, but he could feel them sliding roughly against each other beneath his hands, pushing against his skin from the inside just so. It was beautiful. His Jon, so pretty when he was hurt and begging.

***

Out in the world, in public, Ramsay was the most perfect boyfriend Jon could want. He was concerned when he was supposed to be concerned, frowning at Jon when he showed signs of pain and fussing over him appropriately, offering to rub or kiss away the pain, anything Jon needed to feel better. He was happy when he was meant to be happy, congratulating Jon on whatever achievement he had gotten, be it good grades or a good game. Well, before he’d had to quit the soccer team, unable to continue playing alongside what Ramsay would do to him.

He was polite, opening doors and giving Jon his jacket when it was cold and paying for everything even when Jon insisted otherwise and walking him to the door after dates, kissing him sweetly on the cheek. Never too handsy, not one for public displays of affection, almost shy. Jon had fallen in love with this side of him. The side he would be proud to introduce to his parents, if he had any, blushing like teenagers did when their significant others met their families.

This was the Ramsay who unbound him, gently lowering him to the ground and wrapping him in his soft sweater. Jon held it around him with his unbroken arm, comforted by the soft scent of Ramsay’s aftershave that clung to the fabric, no matter how much it had been washed. Just like no matter how many showers Jon took, he always smelled faintly of antiseptic and blood.

He was eased to his feet, those having blessedly been left alone this time, permitting him to walk, and taken out of the basement that had been repurposed into their personal play room. Ramsay’s father, Roose, hadn’t minded. Jon wasn’t even sure if the man knew what they got up to down there, in the dark and cold. He didn’t know which was worse; Roose not knowing the kind of monster his son was, or Roose indeed knowing, and allowing him to run rampant, doing as he wished to his boyfriend/victim. Jon wasn’t sure which he believed. Sometimes, Roose would look at him as if he knew every single sadistic thing that had been done to him by his son. He would look with that knowing, half concealed smirk, his eyes roaming Jon’s body in a way that made the back of his neck prickle, and had him standing closer to Ramsay, as if attempting to hide behind him, seeking his protection.

Sometimes, he thought Roose wanted to do worse things to him than his son did. Sometimes, he wondered if the rough hands on his bare skin when he was bound and blindfolded weren’t actually Roose, Ramsay nowhere to be found, or perhaps standing right beside his father, watching as his touched his boyfriend. But Jon never thought on that long; Ramsay would never let anyone else touch him, not even his father. Jon was _his_ and his alone. He always would be. That’s why he went to so much trouble to mark Jon as his, reminding Jon and everyone else who saw his naked body just who he belonged to. Who he would always belong to. Ramsay was in his bones, now, too; his beautiful Jon would never get away from him.

Ramsay took him to the Emergency Room to get his bones set once more, so that his arm would heal. He would be able to use his arm just fine in a number of weeks, but evidence of the breaks would always be there. His arm would be stronger for it, reinforced where they were knit back together. Ramsay made Jon stronger.

***

As Jon was still a minor by a handful of months, his guardians had to be called when he was admitted into the hospital. As he had no parents, that left Catelyn and Ned Stark, his aunt and uncle. Catelyn never cared much for him, mostly because of the hate she bore for his father. Ned was a bit better, though Jon felt the man had only taken him in out of a sense of honor, not real love. With Ned being at work, it was Catelyn who came to the hospital, likely wishing she were anywhere else than here.

What should have been a simple procedure of signing some paperwork to have him released, following the x-rays and casting of his arm, turned into much more. Jon was laying in a hospital bed, bored out of his mind, and alone. They weren’t letting Ramsay come see him, and his phone had been taken, preventing him from calling or texting his boyfriend. The whole situation had him on edge, being left in the dark like this.

When a nurse came to inspect him, it all clicked together. She had him take off the garish hospital gown so that she could poke and prod at his body, making note of the many marks marring his otherwise porcelain skin. She hid it well, but she seemed alarmed, and it was only growing by the second the more she discovered. She had him turn, and while he couldn’t see her face, he could imagine the look of horror and disgust on it when he heard her try, and fail, to stifle a gasp. As bad as the front of his body had been, his back was so much worse, so much more gruesome. Jon heard her say something about a rape kit under her breath, to which he immediately objected. There was only so much humiliation he was willing to endure, and then there was also one other simple fact: he hadn’t been raped, at any point, despite what she might think. She just didn’t understand, she didn’t have Ramsay in her life.

She finally left him, and he got back into the bed, falling into a fitful sleep; he was exhausted after the day he had been through, spending no less than five hours in the waiting room alone, another three bouncing between doctors and nurses until now. And considering his activities with Ramsay preluding that, which always left him feeling exhausted, he was long overdue some good rest. It was almost five in the morning already.

***

“What is the meaning of this?” Catelyn demanded. “You call me here in the middle of the night, and now you won’t even tell me the reason why? I do not have the time for these games. Tell me why I am here or let me be on my way!” The security guards, two big burly men who looked as if they had faced far fiercer people than Catelyn and not so much as flinched, looked on at her stoically. No, not at her, through her. She was nothing to them, and they cared not for what she said, be they insults or demands. Then finally, the doctor Jon had been assigned to came in, looking paler than she likey should. It did not bode well for the news she was about to be given.

“You are Jon Snow’s legal guardian?” she asked. Snow, not Stark or Targaryen. It was his grandmother’s maiden name; Lyanna had changed it after her relationship with Rheagar turned horrible, not wanting Jon to have legal ties to that man. Catelyn scoffed.

“No, I am some random woman who came in off the streets claiming to be so. _Yes_ , I am his aunt, and yes, I am his guardian, being that I am his aunt. Now why have you kept me here like some beast locked away in a cage?”

“I’m afraid I have discovered something quite troubling regarding your nephew. Now, my friend here has a few questions for you. If you would please answer them truthfully to the best of your ability, we can be done with this terrible business and, should it be deemed good for his health and wellbeing, you may take Jon home.”

“‘Deemed good for his wellbeing’, what-?” She was cut off by a uniformed man entering the room, coming forward to sit before her. He didn’t smile, simply regarding her for a few long moments--looking through her as the security guards did, although this time it was as if he was trying to look into her soul--before opening a file and taking out a pen.

“How are things going at home?” he asked. It was such an innocent, out of the blue question that Catelyn almost didn’t know how to respond.

“Fine,” she said, voice clipped. She watched him write something down.

“How has Jon been acting recently? Have you noticed any changes in his behavior?”

“No. Nothing beyond what is normal for a boy his age; he’s sullen and withdrawn, with occasional outbursts. Just a teenager.”

“What about friends. Have you noticed him spending time with new people?”

“No. He’s never been a social boy.”

“One of the nurses noted that Jon is covered in more than a few bruises and cuts. Some fresh, from within the last day or two, and some days, even weeks old. Do you know how he’s come to have these injuries?”

“No.”

“I see.” More writing. “Thank you, Mrs. Stark, that will be all.” He closed the file, it looked suspiciously like the beginnings of a case file, and stood. He left the room, followed by the doctor. Try as she might, Catelyn couldn’t make out the words of their conversation through the door.

***

“Well?” Melisandre asked. Stannis opened what was indeed the beginnings of a casefile, looking over the notes he had made once more, then shook his head.

“At best, if the lad is as bad as you say, his aunt and uncle are severely neglectful to not have noticed the signs of abuse. I’ll know more after I see him.”

“Alright, I’ll go wake him.”

Melisandre left to find Jon, Stannis following close behind her. When she pulled back the curtain to find a sleeping Jon, she was surprised to see Ramsay laying beside him in the large bed, stroking his hair gently as Jon lay curled into his chest. He looked so concerned over his boyfriend that Melisandre almost felt guilty at having to make him leave. Almost.

“Why hasn’t Jon been released yet?” he asked, softly so as not to wake Jon, looking up at Melisandre with his big blue eyes that spoke of nothing but innocence.

“We’re going to keep him overnight. Just to make sure everything is alright with his arm,” she said, the lie coming easily to her lips. Ramsay looked as if he would argue, but then changed his mind as if he didn’t dare. Instead he looked down at Jon, pressing a light kiss to his hair.

“He’s going to be alright, though, isn’t he?” he asked, not looking back at Melisandre. He liked the scent of Jon’s hair; he must be using a different conditioner, it smelled different than what he usually used. Ramsay hadn’t decided if he liked it yet or not.

“I don’t see why he shouldn’t be. Now I’m afraid I have to ask you to leave. You can come back tomorrow during visiting hours.”

Ramsay pulled away, Jon reaching out tiredly in his sleep, chasing after Ramsay. His heart swelled; even in his unconscious state, Jon’s body called out for Ramsay. He picked up his boyfriend’s hand to kiss his palm, before pulling away entirely, leaving Jon to the doctor and officer.

Once the boy was gone, Melisandre went to Jon’s side, shaking his shoulder gently to wake him. Wake he did, with a groan and pained grimace. A slight tug of the hospital gown revealed the teeth marks in his shoulder, right where Melisandre had touched him. The sight was enough to break even Stannis's stoic facade, causing him to scowl.

“Jon? Wake up, we have some questions for you.” The teen rolled over, blinking open his tired eyes, red-rimmed from crying. He sat up, looking between Melisandre and Stannis. Saying he was put off by Stannis was an understatement; he was uncomfortable around anyone in uniform, more so when they were questioning _him_.

“I didn’t do anything,” he said, too quickly, his voice hoarse and throat sore from screaming. It was damning, and Jon immediately wished he hadn’t spoken.  

“We don’t think you did, Jon, that’s not why officer Baratheon is here. Just some standard questioning that I’ve been asking all my patients, nothing to be worried about,” she said with a smile. “It shouldn’t take long.”

“Alright,” he said, still eyeing Stannis warily. It was Melisandre who spoke, however, not Stannis.

“How are things going at home, Jon?”

“Fine?”

“You sound unsure.”

“I mean. It’s average, I guess. My family is good to me.”

“What about stress levels?”

“I’m seventeen and I have too much homework, so high.”

“How do you feel about the relationships in your life? With your family, and your--I’m assuming he was your boyfriend? He seemed sweet.” At this, Jon froze, and Stannis scratched down some notes which only made him more nervous, putting him on edge.

“He is,” he said, stilted, sounding unsure again. It wasn’t that he didn’t think Ramsay was sweet, he did, he was. But he was beginning to feel as if this was getting at something more than routine questioning. “Ramsay is good to me,” he said, more surely. Melisandre nodded, her and Stannis sharing a look he couldn’t read. He didn’t think either of them believed him.

“Do you have any problems with Ramsay? Have you gotten into any arguments recently?”

“No more than the average couple.”

“Sometimes people in relationships fight, that’s perfectly normal. What happens when you and Ramsay have disagreements?”

“We don’t fight. We fuck it out and move on,” he said, his voice like cold steel as he regarded her with a glare. She returned the look with a kind smile, one that didn’t reach her eyes; they were just as cold as Ramsay’s sometimes were, before he got particularly violent with him.

“I see. Since you’ve brought that up. Teenagers are prone to experimenting in the bedroom; have you and Ramsay been trying any new things recently?”

“Why is this important?”

“Because you have quite a few wounds and I want to know what the cause is, so that I can determine if you can be released back to your aunt and uncle’s custody or not.”

“You want to know what we do when we have sex? _Fine_ . He ties me up and hits me and makes me bleed and I beg for it every time because I _like_ it when he hurts me, and he wouldn’t do it if I didn’t. Are we done, or would you like a detailed description of all the things he’s done to me?”

“Almost done, love, I just have one more question.” Off to the side, Stannis was writing down notes furiously. Jon ignored him, not caring what either of them thought about his relationship. Ramsay loved him, and he loved Ramsay in return, and what they did together was not the concern of the two adults before him. They just didn’t get what it was like.

“Are you afraid of him?”

_Yes_.

“No.”

“Alright, Jon, that will be all,” Melisandre said, smiling. She put her hand on his shoulder where she knew Ramsay had bitten him and squeezed gently. It took everything in him not to show pain. But then, after so long with Ramsay, his pain tolerance had increased. “Get some rest, now. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“What? You’re not letting me leave?”

“I’m afraid not. I’ll be keeping you overnight, just to make sure everything is alright. You can go in the morning. Goodnight, Jon.”

“Wait, you can’t keep me here!”

“If you can not remain calm, I’m afraid I will have to have you restrained. Given the state of your unbroken wrist, I don’t think you want that. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

***

“It’s the boyfriend,” Melisandre said.

“It usually is.”

“What are you going to do, then? Surely you have enough evidence that he’s being abused.”

“I can’t do anything, not until he files a report and wants to press charges. It seems to me they’ve been together for a long time, and he hasn’t come forward yet; I don’t think he will anytime soon.”

“Is there anything you can do?”

“I can look into the boyfriend, that’s about all.”

“Alright. Thank you, Stannis.”  

***

The next morning, Jon was released, as Melisandre had promised he would be. His body ached, and he felt sticky with the cream she had rubbed all over him to help the bruises heal faster; Ramsay wouldn’t be pleased about that, he didn’t like it when the bruises faded, leaving Jon unmarked and therefore unclaimed.

It wasn’t Catelyn or Ned who came to pick him up, but Robb, who had apparently volunteered to come get him. Jon was grateful, much preferring the company of his cousin than that of his guardians. He didn’t ask so many questions, or try to give him some sage advice; Robb knew Jon well enough to know it was unlikely he would listen. But this was not like normal times, and Robb was merciless with his questions.

Why was he in the hospital?

Why hadn’t Catelyn been allowed to take him home?

How was his arm broken?

Jon didn’t have an answer for many of his questions, finding himself lying. He was sick with guilt at how easy it was to lie to Robb, who was only asking out of concern. The guilt gnawed at him when Robb believed him. He would never think Jon would lie to him, not about something like this. And perhaps, once Jon wouldn’t have. He would have truthfully answered anything Robb wanted to know. But that was before Ramsay had come into his life, teaching him that somethings were meant to be kept secret. Intimate things that should only be kept between them. So Jon lied, and even as he wished to tell the truth, he held his tongue, allowing Robb to keep up his belief that everything was normal.

A part of Jon wondered how much his cousin really did care about him, if he wasn’t able to pick up on the truth, that Jon was far from alright. They had always been so close, before Ramsay. But no, not close enough to notice the changes in Jon.


	2. Chapter 2

  

Jon retreated to his room as soon as they got home, going inside without so much as a goodnight to his cousin. Given the circumstances, he was exempt from class for the day, meaning he could sleep through all of it. With the painkillers still weighing heavily inside him, coursing sluggishly through his veins, Jon had no problem falling asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.

When he woke some few hours later, it was dark once more. There was no moon in the sky, the only light coming from the stars outside that shone through his window. His room was nothing extravagant; a bed, closet, dresser, and desk. A few pictures of him and Ramsay, one of him and Robb at some carnival they’d gone to once. A keepsake here and there. But overall it was bare, spartan, nothing but the bare essentials. He didn’t mind; it kept his room from ever being messy.

Jon was contemplating trying to go back to sleep, but he wasn’t tired enough. The bottle of pills still in his hoodie pocket rattled as he rolled over, and he took them out, holding them up to stare at the label. Perhaps he could take some, it would surely put him to sleep just as fast as the others had. But no, it was too soon; if he took them now, he wouldn’t be able to have any the next morning, and besides, his arm barely hurt right now. Not to mention he couldn’t take any on an empty stomach, and he didn’t want to go down to the kitchen to find something to eat. Sighing, he reached over to put the bottle in his nightstand drawer, followed by a slip of paper.

Jon found himself staring at the ceiling, finding patterns in the textured paint. He thought of a story he had read for English, once; a boy in a hospital creating cities out of the dots he saw in the ceiling. Jon tried to see something like that, some kind of micro civilization, but he couldn’t. It was just paint to him.

He was startled out of his reverie by the sound of his window suddenly being opened, and someone climbing into his room. Jon bolted up, his heart pounding, only to be met with the smiling face of Ramsay. Jon smiled back in relief, though his heart still pulsed as if he was running for his life, filling him with adrenaline. Ramsay always had that effect on him, giving him a rush with nothing more than his presence; that’s how Jon knew they were meant for each other. That was how people always described the feeling of being in love.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, propping himself up on his uninjured arm. Ramsay kicked off his shoes and came to crawl into the bed beside Jon, greeting him with a soft kiss.

“You weren’t answering your texts, I was worried.”

Jon’s smile fell as he laid back down so that he could rifle through his pockets, trying to find his phone; he could have sworn it had been given back to him along with his clothes, but where was… aha! Turning it on, he expected to just find it silenced. Instead, he got the flash of the red battery symbol.

“It’s dead,” he said with all the anguish of someone proclaiming the death of a loved one. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to, but--I didn’t have a charger at the hospital--”

“Hey, it’s alright, love. I’m not angry,” Ramsay said, hushing Jon gently as he stroked his cheek and held him close. Jon held onto him tight, as best as he was able, hiding his face against Ramsay’s chest, tense. “Just don’t do it again, alright, darling? It makes me worry when I can’t get ahold of you.”

“I won’t do it again,” he promised, blinking back frightened tears.

“Good boy,” Ramsay said, stroking Jon’s hair. Jon found the touch soothing, even as it made him feel like a frightened animal that Ramsay was trying to calm, so that he could lure it into a trap. He couldn’t think what that trap might be this time, his mind hazy from the drugs one of the nurses had pumped him full of.

He supposed it didn’t matter; Ramsay liked playing his games, and Jon had played them all. Not to win, no, he never played to win. There was no winning with Ramsay, merely enduring. He had gotten good at enduring. Pain, pleasure, anything and everything, he could take it. If he were to ever go back into sports, he would likely be the best player if only because of all that Ramsay had done to him, making him so much stronger than he had been before. He didn’t look strong, of course, on the rather skinny side now that he wasn’t as active as he used to be. But Ramsay liked him like that, soft with a thin layer of fat over his bones rather than hard with muscle. Ramsay always told him how much he liked his softness, his helplessness, how he needed Ramsay to protect him because he could never protect himself as he was.

“Why?” Jon asked suddenly, turning his head to look up at his boyfriend. Ramsay stopped stroking his hair for a moment, frozen, tense, coiled like a snake ready and waiting to strike. Then he relaxed, carding his fingers through Jon’s soft hair once more.

“Why what, beautiful?”

“My arm--why did you break it?”

Jon was laying on Ramsay’s chest, looking at the cast on his arm stretched out beside them. It had been cleanly snapped in three places. Ramsay reached out to brush his fingers over the cast, feeling its rough texture.

“Broken bones heal stronger,” he said, simple as that. “You should thank me, you’ll be stronger because of me, now.” He moved his hand lower to take Jon’s hand, gripping his fingers until he could feel Jon’s joints popping and crunching with a sickening sound.

“Thank you,” Jon said, his voice an octave higher as he gasped the words. He didn’t dare  try and pull his hand away for fear of Ramsay accidentally hurting him further; or worse, intentionally doing so. But Ramsay released him when he heard the words, satisfied. For now.

“You’re welcome. You know I would do anything for you. Anything to make you strong.”

“I know,” he said quietly. A part of him only wished that doing anything _for_ him didn’t go hand in hand with doing everything _to_ him.

Suddenly, he was being turned over, their positions reversed to that Ramsay was on top of him, settling between his legs as if he was meant to be there. Jon grimaced when Ramsay stroked his cheek before leaning down to lick his salty skin.

“Ramsay, please--I don’t want to--I can’t--not right now,” he said, begging, pleading. Ramsay smiled down at him, that gentle smile that was anything other than kind.

“I love the taste of your tears,” he said, “and the way you look when you cry.” His hands found their place on Jon’s hips, fingers fitting perfectly over bruises he had put there only a few nights before, and Jon struggled weakly against him, trying to get away, pushing Ramsay back with his hand and a weak, mumbled, _don’t_.

“I won’t do anything you don’t want, precious,” Ramsay promised, even as he pushed Jon’s hand away to lean down and kiss at his neck, one hand pushing up his shirt. Jon clenched his eyes shut and grit his teeth, knowing he couldn’t fight Ramsay in his current state. He probably couldn’t even if his arm wasn’t broken and he wasn’t drugged half out of his mind.

But then he heard someone approaching, it had to be Robb finally coming home to go to bed, just on the other side of the wall. He had half a mind to cry out for help. As if sensing this, Ramsay clamped his hand over Jon’s mouth, tsking at him.

“None of that now, precious. You wouldn’t want to make me angry, would you?” Jon shook his head as much as he was able, his eyes still wide and full of terror, and Ramsay smiled. Always smiling. “That’s what I thought. Now, just lay still and look pretty for me, alright? You don’t have to do a thing, I’ll take care of you. You trust me to take care of you, don’t you?”

Jon nodded, and Ramsay’s smile broadened. He didn’t trust Jon to keep silent, however, so he reached over to his nightstand, his eyes never leaving Jon’s as he blindly rifled through it. “Do you still have the lovely gifts I left you, pet? Aha, you do! Such a good boy.” He pulled out a gag from the drawer and fit it into Jon’s mouth before he had a chance to make a sound, bucking it behind his head. He could only be grateful it wasn’t the one that made him choke.

“Now, be still. You’ll do as I say, won’t you?” Jon jerked his head once in a nod, tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes steadily. Ramsay brushed his fingers through Jon’s hair, fanning it out around him. “My lovely doll. You’re such a pretty thing, even when you’re misbehaving. I think you need to be punished for being bad, what do you think?”

Jon shook his head, his pulse jumping at his throat, and Ramsay delightfully soaked up his fear, feeding on it. “No? Well, perhaps I’ll let it slide this time, considering the circumstances. It must be hard to be good when you’re hurting. Would you like me to hurt you more? I know you like it when I do. It makes you think of me when you’re at school and you can still feel me, even when I can’t be with you.”

Again, Jon shook his head. “No? Would you like me to be gentle, then? Make you feel good?” This time, Jon hesitated. He looked up at Ramsay, watched the way his eyes dilated with lust, endless voids of black consuming the blue until it was nothing more than a thin ring of pigment. Then, he nodded, wrapping his legs loosely around Ramsay’s waist rather than trying to wiggle away from him.

Ramsay hummed, pleased, and went about carefully pulling off Jon’s hoodie and shirt, mindful of his cast. He managed without getting so much as a wince from Jon, quite the feat. “I’m leaving this on you. Not as punishment, just a precaution. I know how loud you like to get when I play with you,” he said, tapping the gag lightly. Jon nodded his assent, not wanting to be caught anymore than Ramsay did, both for the same reason and entirely different reasons.

Pleased at his boyrfriend’s obedience, Ramsay ran his hands over Jon’s chest, leaning down so that he could follow his hands with his lips, pressing soft kisses to Jon’s skin. The gentle touch had him shivering, reaching out to Ramsay, wanting to touch him as well. Ramsay was having none of that, taking Jon’s hands and pressing them into the pillow on either side of his head. “Keep you hands here. Do you think you can do that for me? Good. Now _be still_ , I told you that you don’t have to do anything. This is about pleasing _you_.”

He continued kissing his way down Jon’s body, tugging his pants and boxers down his legs as he went. When he got to Jon’s cock, he pulled away just long enough to pull the final pieces of clothing off and toss them aside, before taking him into his mouth. Jon moaned in appreciation at the feeling of Ramsay’s hot, wet mouth--it was rare that the other went down on him, usually being the other way around with Jon choking on Ramsay’s cock--spreading his legs wider without even thinking. Ramsay kneaded his thighs, rubbing softly as he bobbed his head along the teen’s length.

Jon was whimpering through the gag by the time Ramsay finally pulled away, his hands fisted in the pillow in an attempt to do as he was told and keep them there. He was crying, still, but for a whole different reason this time. Ramsay kept getting him so close, but refusing to let him come, edging Jon to the point he couldn’t think straight. Just how Ramsay liked him. Ramsay kissed his hip before sitting up, grabbing the half-empty bottle of lube from the nightstand, popping it open to slathering his fingers in the cold, clear slick. He didn’t bother waiting for it to warm to his temperature, wanting to get the preparation over with so that he could get to the fun part.

But when he was three fingers deep and Jon was sobbing through his gag, he changed his mind, mercilessly teasing the teen. If he couldn’t torture Jon one way, then he would torture him another, overstimulating him to the point he was twitching and tensing having coming twice already. When he came a thirst time, this time dry, Ramsay finally pulled his fingers out of him, taking mercy on him. He reached up to undo the gag as well, allowing Jon to finally breathe properly and beg to be fucked.

“Shh, it’s alright, pet, I’ve got you,” Ramsay said, grinning. “That’s it, such a good boy for me.” He slicked his hard cock with the excess lube still on his fingers. Jon wasn’t looking at Ramsay, instead staring to the side at the wall as Ramsay thrust into him, his features set in a grimace and his teeth clenched against the moans that threatened to spill past his lips.

Robb was on the other side of that wall, having no idea just what was happening inside the room adjacent to his. Jon wished he did, wished he could scream a name that wasn’t Ramsay, and have his cousin come save him. He didn’t. He closed his eyes instead and hoped that would stop the tears streaming down his cheeks and silent sobs that stopped his breath better than any gag.

***

Jon wished he could take another day off school, but Catelyn wouldn’t allow it as she didn’t think it was necessary--his arm was broken, he wasn’t ill--and Ned didn’t want his grades to suffer from missed lessons. It wasn’t all bad, though. Ramsay couldn’t find him at school, couldn’t get to him. Jon would be spared from his kindness for a little while even if it meant being subjected to the unique cruelty that high school seemed to inspire.

For the most part, the first several hours went well. He told his teachers why he wasn’t there, got the assignments he’d missed, and kept his head down. A few people expressed concern and signed his cast--he hadn’t expected anyone would want to, which resulted in stealing a sharpie from one of the teachers--others asked what happened. Jon told more lies on just a handful of hours than he thought he’d told in his entire life. Ramsay had done many things to him, turned him into someone he never thought he would be. But he never would have thought Ramsay would turn him into such a liar. A good one, too. So good that even Ramsay never knew every gasp for _more_ and _harder_ and _I love you_ was a lie.

Due to the fact that Jon was unable to participate with a broken limb, he was excused from P.E. Although ‘excused’ was a gentle term for what had actually happened when the coach banished him. But his insults were nothing compared to Ramsay’s blood-stained compliments, and Jon hardly blinked at them. He made his way to the library to catch up on his missed homework, and just about jumped out of his skin when someone grabbed him by the shoulder.

“What the hell, Snow, why are you so jumpy?”

His heart was beating fast, eyes wide as he looked up at Theon. The blonde was struck by the honest to god _fear_ in Jon’s eyes. Fear that was entirely unwarranted. “What’s your problem?”

“Piss off,” Jon all but hissed, turning around to head to the library. He refused to admit that he was running away like a coward; he just had a lot to catch up on, and a limited time to do it.

Theon watched him go with a scowl, before it evolved into a smirk. Jon was hiding something, and he was going to find out what it was.

***

After school, Theon ran after Jon, catching up with him in a few strides of his long legs. He grabbed Jon’s shoulder again and pulled him off to the side, this time shoving him back against the wall.

“You didn’t answer my question. That’s rude, you know.”

“Let go of me.”

“Not until you answer me.”

When Jon tried to strike Theon, Theon grabbed his wrist and turned him around, twisting his arm behind his back. And just like that, Jon was no longer seeing the wall littered with papers and posters before him, instead seeing the cold glass of a mirror. He clenched his eyes shut as his breathing became labored, but even that wasn’t enough to block out the image of Ramsay’s face, smiling cruelly. He felt the older boy’s teeth sinking into his shoulder, felt Ramsay’s hands--not Theon’s--twisting his arm and making the bones grind together, but not yet break.

He was brought back to himself by Theon’s voice in his ear, all but shouting, hands shaking his shoulders as if to wake him up. He was on the floor in a heap of limbs--when had that happened?-- his legs having given out. Theon was knelt in front of him, looking at him as if he was some kind of experiment gone horribly wrong.

“What the fuck is your problem, Snow?” Theon said, pulling away. There was a crowd gathered around them to witness Jon in his moment of weakness. He could feel that his face was wet with tears, hating how easily they came to his eyes nowadays. Ramsay loved to see him cry, said it make him look so pretty.

Jon scrubbed at his face with his sleeve, cheeks burning. He stood with difficulty, and pushed through everyone, ignoring the few that asked if he was alright. None of them cared, they were just asking because they felt compelled to pretend to be concerned, even when they had probably been laughing along with all the others.

He was still shaking as he walked to the parking lot to head home, and someone drove up beside him. More so when he realized who it was.

“Are you alright, love?” Ramsay asked as he got into the passenger side, all sweetness and concern. It made Jon want to gag; he couldn’t believe Ramsay’s pretenses anymore, not when he was beginning to see through them the more he built up his own.

“Yes,” he said, hating himself for the way his vice shook.

“I don’t believe you. Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

“It’s just. Nothing.” Jon sighed, turning to look at Ramsay with a false smile, the truth hidden behind his teeth. “Just a rough day, is all.” He could see in Ramsay’s eyes that he didn’t believe him. Expected Ramsay to try and force the truth out of him.

Ramsay said nothing as he turned his attention to the road, easing off the break. He just smiled, and it sent a chill down Jon’s spine; he knew that smile, and it wasn’t the smile of his sweet boyfriend; it was the smile of the darkness that lay beneath his pretty face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL9T1MJFz3fvnghQi2TVL8N3D_AsQ0kuXZ
> 
> If anyone is curious about what I write to/get my inspo from, I have a playlist ^ ^^ They're very good songs, and fit the ship/this fic pretty well ;)
> 
> so I'm working on a fic called Happy Wife, Happy Life (idk if ive mentioned it here yet) and. Well. It's going to be pretty good, and have some pretty cool art to go with it, but daaamn, it's not pretty.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dammit. I mean to wait, but I just couldn't, guys.  
> Shit's. Getting. Real.

_ One Week Later _

At some unearthly hour in the night, Jon was pulled from the blissful temporary death of sleep by Catelyn roughly shaking his by the shoulder. He opened his eyes to be met with her cold, unsmiling face, her features drawn thin. Immediately, a wave of dread washed over him. 

“What?” he asked, fearing what the answer would be. Nothing good ever came from Catelyn looking at him like that. 

“Get up. There are some men here who would like to talk to you.”

Jon did as he was told, tense as he pulled himself from bed, following Catelyn down the stairs and into the living room. He could see the flashing blue and red lighting the inside of the house before he saw the cops. Immediately, he wanted to run. He would have, had Robb not tiredly followed him to see what was going on, blocking his path. 

“What happened?” Robb asked with a yawn, quiet so that only Jon would hear. Jon shrugged, putting up an air of nonchalance in an attempt to disguise how he really felt. He hadn’t told Robb about officer Baratheon, and since neither he or Ned had brought it up, Jon assumed Catelyn had kept it to herself as well. He could only think of that encounter as the reason for police being here now. 

“I don’t know, but I’m afraid.” Afraid of the truth being revealed, as he often was these days.

Robb put his hand on Jon’s shoulder, squeezing affectionately in a way he probably hoped to be comforting. It served to do nothing but blossom pain all along his right shoulder and down his arm. Robb didn’t know about the bites there. 

Catelyn went to go stand beside Ned, and Jon no longer had anything between him and the cops. When they looked at him with hardened eyes, hands drifting just a little too close to their guns, he knew he had every reason to be afraid. 

“What is this about?” he asked, his voice wavering worse than it did when he was around Ramsay. 

“Are you Jon Snow?”

“Yes…?”

One of them, a big burly man whose biceps were easily as big around as Jon’s thighs, stepped forward. “We’re gonna need you to turn around and put your hands against the wall.”

“What? Why? I haven’t done anything.” 

“We’ll determine that. Now, hands on the wall.” 

Jon did as he was bid, looking at Robb over his shoulder as the officer came over and kicked his legs farther apart so that he could frisk him. The man’s touch hurt, made worse by the marks Ramsay had left on him that the officer was now carelessly, unknowingly, touching. His cousin looked conflicted, wanting to step in and interfere, but knowing that would only make things worse. Once the officer had verified that Jon wasn’t concealing anything, he pulled Jon’s arms behind his back. 

“Jon Snow, you under arrested for suspected involvement in the murder of Theon Greyjoy.” 

“What!?” he shrieked, at the same time as Robb. 

“Theon’s dead?” Robb asked, his voice unwavering. He was too in shock for the pain of loss to fully set in yet, unable to process such devastating news this late in the night.

“You think  _ I  _ killed him?” 

“All of the evidence points to you,” the officer said, plain and simple. No ifs ands or buts, not a shred of doubt. He pulled Jon away from the wall and lead him out to the squad car, reciting his rights in a tone that suggested Jon didn’t deserve them. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have a right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you.”

Jon saw Catlyn watching with a cold sort of satisfaction as he was shoved into the backseat while the other officer talked to her, Ned, and Robb. Ned was visibly displeased yet rational, while Robb was livid, arguing with the officer in the way only a law student could. But it was all for nought, the officer refusing to listen to anything he had to say. Finally, he shoved past the officer, stormed to the car, and got in beside Jon. He looked at both officers with a determined glare in his eyes, daring them to make him get out. The effect was somewhat dampened by him being clad in nothing but a tank top and plaid pajama pants. He even reached out to lock the door, purely for pettiness, and Jon was half-expecting Robb to stick his tongue out at the gun-wielding man as well. Thankfully, he held back that particular juvenile impulse. 

“What are you doing?” Jon hissed under his breath, not wanting Robb’s foolishness to get him hurt. 

“Representing you,” Robb said back, crossing his arms when the officer, the scary one with the thick arms sitting in the front seat, snorted. “Father’s lawyer is in Japan with family right now, unreachable. So I’m going to be your lawyer until these pricks realize you’re innocent.” He cast his eyes back to Jon, then, as if to say, _ you are innocent, aren’t you?  _ He was hurt that there was any doubt in Robb’s mind about his innocence, but at the same time grateful that there was enough belief for his cousin to help him. 

“Everything is going to be just fine,” Robb said taking Jon’s hand in his own when the other officer joined them, taking them away to the station. Jon just wished he could believe him. 

***

There was a single manilla casefile on the table in the interrogation room. Neither Robb nor Jon dared open it. They had tossed Jon and Robb inside, then left them alone. Jon couldn’t say how long they had been left in the room, white noise ringing in his ears in a way that made him want to claw his eyes out. Ramsay had done something like this to him once, after he’d displeased him. Locked him away in a haphazardly soundproofed closet that Jon suspected Ramsay had made just for that purpose. Ramsay had left him in there for hours, until Jon had screamed his throat raw and cried himself sick. It became one of Ramsay’s favorite punishments, one Jon had only suffered through four times before learning how to avoid making Ramsay that angry. Still, he couldn’t bear to be in a place like that anymore, having become trained to be so afraid of it. 

Even now, with the room much bigger than a closet, Jon felt as if he was suffocating, the walls closing in on him, tears of panic pricking at his eyes. He couldn’t stand the constant sound of no-sound. Just as he began to hyperventilate, Robb’s grip on his hand tightened, drawing his attention. Robb reached out to put his hand on Jon’s cheek to make him lift his head, his features drawn with concern. 

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

“Claustrophobic,” was all Jon managed to choke out past his steadily building panic. 

“ _ Fuck _ .” The only thing Robb knew to help that would be to get Jon out of the room, but he couldn’t do that; they weren’t allowed to leave. “Alright, just. Try to deep breaths, okay?” 

Jon tried, he really did, but he couldn’t take in more than a few gasps at a time. Robb had him get up off the uncomfortable metal chair he was sitting on, then sit on the floor, before sitting behind him so that their back were pressed together. “Try to breathe with me, alright?” Robb said, breathing deep and even. He thought it wouldn’t work at first, but finally Jon’s own breathing began to even out. By then Robb was beginning to feel lightheaded, but he didn’t mention it. 

They stayed that way, on the floor and just breathing together, for what felt like ages. It was calming to both of them, something like meditation. Jon could almost forget where they were, and why they were there. 

When a mean-looking officer--his name tag read Throne--came in, neither of them moved. Thorne didn’t say anything, going to sit on the other side of the table and take out a number of pictures. He spread them out carefully on the table, then leaned back in the seat with another file, flipping through it. Jon’s intention had been to just stay where he was and wait it out with Robb. Maybe the officer would grow bored and leave, or they would catch someone else, preferably the  _ real  _ killer. But the curiosity was eating at him, even though he knew what those pictures likely were. He wanted to see them, wanted to see what they were accusing him of doing. 

So he got up and walked to the table before Robb could catch his arm and stop him. A decision he soon regretted, feeling as though he would be sick from the sight before him. Theon hadn’t been murdered, he’d been tortured,  _ mangled _ .

“Oh my god,” Jon said, his legs nearly giving out. “I didn’t--you can’t honestly believe I did all of this?” He sat down, to keep himself from falling, and picked up one of the pictures. Theon had been cut to pieces, he was barely recognizable. Just a pile of limbs, meat. More akin to shark bait than a teenage boy.

“We have evidence.” Thorne stood, placing his hands on the table and staring across it at Jon, his eyes boring into him, so full of hate. “And motive.” 

“What motive?” both Jon and Robb asked. 

“You were in the hospital about a week ago, right? To get your arm fixed up?”

“Yes, what of it?” 

Cold coursed through Jon’s veins, the conversation taking a turn to something he didn’t want to discuss in front of Robb. There was no way this could go that wouldn’t prove him to be a liar. 

“Officer Baratheon went to check it out when one of the doctors called with some troubling information. Now, we thought it was your boyfriend. But it wasn’t, was it? It was Theon Greyjoy.” 

“What is he talking about, Jon?”

“You didn’t tell him? Now, why might you feel the need to hide the fact that you were being abused, by the boy you  _ murdered _ , from your cousin--correction,  _ attorney _ ?” 

Jon looked up from the bloody mess of a picture at Robb to see something in his eyes he couldn’t quite identify. A myriad of emotions swirling in his stormy eyes. For once, Jon couldn’t think of any excuses or lies. He couldn’t think of anything, unable to speak as Robb looked at him expectantly. 

Robb came forward and lifted up the hem of Jon’s hoodie before he had a chance to protest, revealing yellow-green bruises covering his abdomen. Ramsay had been kind to him this past week, not giving Jon any more bruises, letting the rest fade. But Robb didn’t know that. All he saw was evidence of what Theon had supposedly been doing to him. Evidence that lined up with the time Theon going missing. His eyes turned cold and he dropped the sweater, letting it fall back into place. 

“Robb,” Jon said, his voice laced with helplessness, breaking as Robb backed a few steps away from him. “I didn’t do this, I swear. Theon and I--we didn’t get along and--we fought sometimes. But I didn’t want to kill him!” 

“Tell the truth, Jon. Did Theon hurt you?” Robb asked, his voice so icy it sent a chill down Jon’s spine. 

“... Yes. But it’s not like you think.” Yes, Theon hurt him, he was a typical bully, but the bruises on his body were never from Theon. Theon was a prick, but he wasn’t  _ violent _ . He didn’t get off on making Jon cry and bleed and beg and suffer. It wasn’t his teeth marks in Jon’s flesh, or his fingerprint bruises on his hips.

“Then why did you lie to me at the hospital?”

“Because I know you, I didn’t want you to get mad over nothing.”

“Have you seen yourself?” No, he tried not to look. Hated to catch his reflection in mirrors or windows or reflection. Hated to see what he had become. “That’s not nothing! That’s abuse!” That’s  _ motive _ . He may not have said it, but being with Ramsay had long since taught him to read between the lines and see the intent behind people’s words. 

Jon was silent. He was silent as the grave, watching Robb watch him. He was silent as Robb turned, silent as he walked away, silent as he put his hand on the door to leave. But he couldn’t stay silent as Robb opened the door, really about to leave him, believing he had murdered Theon, his  _ best friend _ , believing he wasn’t worth trying to save, all while an insidious part of his mind whispered,  _ maybe I’m not. _

“I didn’t tell you because I was  _ ashamed _ ,” he said, barely audible. He likely wouldn’t have been heard, had there been any other sound in the room but the creaking of paper as he clenched the picture in his hands so tight that it’s edges sliced into his fingers.

Still, Robb did not turn around. Not until he heard the break in Jon’s voice, and the soft sound of tears hitting the picture. 

“I didn’t want to admit what he was doing to me, alright? He was your best friend, and-and I knew if you found out...”

Robb came to kneel in front of Jon, wrapping his arms around him--careful to mind the bruises this time--and held him close as sobs wracked his body. “You should have told me,” he said, gently chastising Jon. He ran his fingers through his cousin’s hair, pressing a kiss to his temple.

Jon wrapped his good arm around Robb’s shoulders, crying against his neck, only this time the tears were false. God knows he’s cried enough times in his life, he’d learned to fake it. Ramsay would hurt him until he could have Jon weeping for him, and when he did he would be gentler. So Jon trained himself to force the tears, so that he could force Ramsay to be kinder in his cruelty. And now he was using them to manipulate Robb, force him to stay just because he was so selfish, not wanting to be alone. And Robb had no idea, so easily manipulated into doing what Jon wanted from him with just a few sobs and broken words. 

“How touching,” Thorne said, patronizingly, drawing attention back to himself. Jon pulled away from Robb, scrubbing at his face to rub away the tears staining his face, and scowled at the man. He was hardly intimidating with his puffy, red-rimmed eyes and splotchy cheeks. 

“I didn’t kill Theon. I’m not… I’m not like that.” Even after everything that had been done to him, he wouldn’t wish it on anyone else, not even Theon. 

Despite what officer Thorne thought, Jon hadn’t hated Theon. Yes, Theon bullied him, but that’s all it was. A stupid boy trying to establish his dominance, and Jon was an easy target. But Jon had pitied him, knowing what it was like to grow up in a family without love, and only the bare necessities of survival. Jon would have probably been just like Theon, if Ramsay hadn’t come into his life to give him all of the love and affection he was deprived of. 

“Yes, you did. He abused you, probably for over a year, and finally you just couldn’t take it anymore. You did everything to him that you wrote about in this,” he said, tossing a ratty journal onto the table. All of the color from crying drained from Jon’s face when he saw it. Thorne smirked, knowing he really had Jon this time. “Yeah, you recognize this, don’t you? Don’t try to deny it’s yours; we ran the handwriting against a few samples of your homework, and it came back as a match.” 

“Where did you get that?” Jon asked, his voice wavering, wanting to reach out and snatch it up, but Robb got to it before he could. 

“Found it near where the body was dumped. Where you  _ left  _ it.” 

“No, that was  _ stolen  _ from me.” 

Robb flipped through the pages, his expression neutral but his cheeks flushed bright at the words and images depicted in the journal. Some were printed out photo’s glued or taped in, others were original drawings done by Jon. The teen expected ridicule and disgust from his cousin when Robb closed the journal and handed it to Jon, who took it and held it close, looking down in shame. Now Robb would really leave him, now that he’d seen the disgusting things he liked to think about, imagine having done to him. To  _ him _ , not Theon. 

“He has some unconventional fantasies, so what. What seventeen year old doesn’t want to experiment a little?” Jon thought he would cry from the relief. He held the tears back this time, though; they would serve no purpose.

“How many teenagers do you know that fantasize about  _ that _ ? The things in that book aren’t sexual experimentation, that’s sadism in it’s sickest form. Your cousin is a disturbed individual.” 

“I’m not sadistic,” Jon said, his voice weak as the officer put voice to what he knew to be true about himself. He was disturbed and sick for liking the things he did. He could tell himself he hated it all day long. But as soon as night fell, it wasn’t thought of soft kisses and caresses keeping him company under the covers when he had his cock in his hand and pillow between his teeth.

“What was it that finally pushed you over the edge, huh? Was it your arm? Did he reject your advances? What did it for you?” 

“I didn’t--no, nothing, I didn’t do this.”

“Yes you did. You killed him because he didn’t want you.” 

“No…”

“He didn’t want you because you’re  _ sick  _ and  _ disgusting  _ and you wouldn’t take no for an answer. You couldn’t have him, so no one else could, is that it?” 

Jon shook his head, his protests getting weaker by the second. Was there any truth to officer Thorne’s words? He sounded so sure, no doubt in his mind that Jon was the killer. Maybe he was? Jon had had bouts of memory loss before, going places or doing things without realizing, only to wake up minutes or hours later with a hole in his memory.

“That’s enough,” Robb said, hugging Jon close again. His eyes had become vacant in a way that meant he wasn’t with them anymore, retreating in on himself. 

“It’s enough when I say it’s enough, boy.” 

“ _ Thorne _ ,” an older man barked, coming into the room. Immediately the officer stood to face the man, this one’s name reading Mormont. 

“Sir.” 

“Leave the poor lad alone. Can’t you see you’re terrifying him?” 

“That ‘poor lad’ is the  _ murderer _ , captain.” 

“Bring me solid evidence, and perhaps I’ll be inclined to believe you. It’s obvious that the boy is a victim, not a killer. Now _ get out _ .”

“Yes sir,” Thorne said grudgingly, leaving with a disgusted glare cast to Jon and Robb. 

“I’m sorry about him,” Mormont said, gathering up the pictures to put back into the file, out of sight. “He can get a bit overzealous.” 

“More than a bit.” But Thornes’ superiority complex wasn’t his issue right now. “Jon? Come back to me, little cousin,” he said, gently shaking Jon’s shoulders, trying to bring him back to himself. It didn’t work, Jon’s eyes still just as vacant. As if he were nothing but a corpse himself. “Come on, Jo, don’t do this. Wake up.”

He shook him harder, stroked his cheek, ran his fingers through his hair, just gently touched him until he saw the light return to Jon’s eyes. He smiled, relieved as he kissed the top of Jon’s head. “There you are.”

“Where was I?” Jon mumbled against Robb’s chest. Robb laughed, more unnerved than humored that Jon didn’t even realize whatever had happened to him. 

“I don’t know, kid. But you weren’t here.” He gave Jon another kiss, before turning to look at Mormont. “Can we go, or are you going to detain him?” 

“You can go. Your parents are waiting outside to take you home. Just make sure you’re both back tomorrow, I do have some questions for you.” 

“Can I keep my journal?” Jon asked, quiet. Now that he had it back, he didn’t want to relinquish it again. He smiled, softly, when Mormont nodded. 

“We have what we needed from it. Some of the things in there… you know they’re not safe, right? You could get yourself seriously hurt, or killed, doing that.” Jon gripped the edges of the notebook so tight his knuckles were white, thinking, _ that’s the point. _ He wasn’t sure if he meant the getting hurt or the getting himself killed, though, and that thought scared him. 

“They’re just fantasies, sir.”

Mormont nodded, looking like he didn’t believe Jon. “Be safe, son.” 

Jon nodded, knowing he was the farthest thing from safe in any way, and let Robb lead him out of the station with an arm around him. They were quite the sight, shuffling out of the station in the middle of the night, clad in pajamas and no shoes, Jon looking scared and pitiful while Robb looked ready to fight everyone there if they dared say a thing about his baby cousin. 

On the drive home, Jon sat curled into Robb’s chest in the backseat, finally feeling somewhat safe, knowing Robb wouldn’t willingly let anyone hurt him. He would have killed Theon himself, had he found out that Theon had been hurting him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you that had hope for Theon finding out what happened to Jon and going to Robb about it... sorry guys. 
> 
> Now everyone knows something, and no one knows anything ;) and apparently, Jon is pulling a Will Graham (question is, did he actually kill Theon for assaulting him last chapter~?) 
> 
> Also! I know Alliser was a coach last chapter, but I decided I wanted to have him be the officer, so I changed last chapter to just say "the coach" or something :P
> 
> next morning edit: boy howdy. I spent a few hours last night writing a few K for one of the later chapters and GOD DAMN. And I now have like three possible ending, all of them great, so Idk what to do now. I'm going to try and actually plan out a time line, and try to include all of them? Cause like they're great additions to the storyline.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Ramsay is actually portrayed as a Good Boyfriend(tm)

The next morning, Robb and Jon made their way back to the station to talk to Mormont. The drive was quiet, the silence think between them. To say it was awkward was an understatement. It was festering, and Jon couldn’t take it. But he also couldn’t force himself to break it. So there they sat for the twenty-six minutes it took to reach their destination, tense. Robb kept looking over at Jon, glancing at him from the corner of his eye, and each time he would sigh, grip the steering wheel tighter. This is one of the reasons Jon hadn’t wanted to tell Robb; he hated how his cousin looked at him now. Like he was something broken and ruined. A doll that had once been so pretty, only to have the mold and filth inside finally revealed. He wasn’t so pretty anymore.

When they got into the station, this time dressed in normal clothes rather than pajamas, they were taken to separate rooms to be questioned. Mormont went with Jon; he didn’t know who was with Robb, he just hoped it wasn’t Thorne.

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” Mormont said, his voice gruff. He looked like he meant it. “Thorne can be indelicate. I wouldn’t keep him around if the bastard wasn’t so good at his job.”

Jon shrugged, scritching at his cast with his nail, more to have something to do than anything else. Mormont opened the pad of paper before him, clicked his pen, and the questioning began.

“A number of things in that journal of yours were done to Theon before he died. Do you know why that might be?”

“Whoever stole it from me must have wanted to try some things, and they just happened to pick Theon to try them on. Like you said, they’re not safe.”

“Did Theon have anyone who would want to hurt him?”

“I mean, probably. He was a bully, he made a lot of people suffer.” He just seemed to have a hard on for Jon in particular, knowing Jon had no one to defend him.

“Can you think of anyone in particular who may want him dead?”

“No. He was mean, but he wasn’t… he wasn’t that bad.”

“Would other students that knew him say the same?” Jon looked up at Mormont now, his hair covering most of his frowning face. What Mormont was really asking: _do you only think he wasn’t that bad because you’ve been through worse?_

“I don’t know, sir. I only have my own experiences to go off of.” It wasn’t a solid yes, or a no. But it was perhaps it was enough to imply that yes, he’s lived through so much worse than Theon. A cry for help that he wasn’t willing to fully put voice to yet, unable to admit that he needed help.

 _Unable to admit that he_ deserved _help. Deserved anything else but what Ramsay did to him._

“Alright, lad. Just a few more questions, then you’ll be free to go.” Jon nodded his assent, and the rest of the questioning went by in a blur. He could hardly remember what he’d been asked as he walked through the station once more in a daze. He was pulled out of it by the haggard face of Balon Greyjoy. Theon’s father. There was so much hate in his eyes as he pointed an accusatory finger in Jon’s direction.

“You,” he said, his voice the old croak that came with age. “You killed my boy.”

“I-didn’t--”

“You did! You’re just like your father; Targaryen blood always runs true!”

Jon wanted to stay, to ask what Balon meant by that--what did his father have to do with this?--but he was ushered away by another officer.

“Pay no mind to him, son. The grieving say all sorts of mad things.”

***

Jon had never given much thought to the paternal side of his family, and the only thing he knew about Lyanna was what Ned had told him about her. He knew he she was beautiful, and kind but fierce. That he looked just like her, the Targaryen looks completely absent in his features. He had heard Catelyn remark once that he had the infamous fiery Targaryen temper.

Now, with Balon’s words echoing in his thoughts, Jon found himself in bed with his laptop, searching for what the man could have possibly meant when he said Targaryen blood always ran true.

There were a number of articles that came up. Aerys Targaryen, his grandfather, had been an arsonist. He’d attempted to set a school on fire, thankfully having been stopped by one officer Jaime Lannister. Another, Daenerys and Viserys, his aunt and uncle and only living relatives, were also suspected of having a particular affection for fire, but no substantial proof had been found. There seemed to be something on every Targaryen, madness apparently running thick in their blood. _His_ blood. He wanted to search specifically for his father, but he didn’t know the man’s name. Instead he searched for Lyanna. What he found had him immediately searching out Ned.

“Why is my name Snow?” he asked when he found Ned in his study. “Why not Stark? Or my father’s surname?”

“Because your mother wished it to be so.”

“Who was my father?”

“Why are you asking this now? You’ve never wanted to know before.”

“It wasn’t important to me before. Tell me, who was he?”

“... I think you know.”

Jon shook his head, wanting Ned to say it. Unable to believe it was true until he did.

“Your father was Rheagar Targaryen.”

“And he killed my mother…” Ned’s silence confirmed his words. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

“You didn’t need to know.”

“I’m the primary suspect in a _murder_ investigation!” He didn’t care what Mormont said about knowing he was a victim, not a killer. All of the evidence they had still pointed to him. “You don’t think _maybe_ I needed to know that I come from a family of murders?”

“You are not your father, son.”

“ _Don’t_ call me that. You’re not my father, either.”

“Jon--”

“No, don’t. I--I need to deal with this.”

Jon barely took enough time to pull on his shoes before walking out the front door, having no particular destination in mind. He thought that maybe he could go to the park; it was a good place to go and be alone with his thoughts, vacant and abandoned at all hours. But it was Ramsay’s house he found himself in front of instead. He couldn’t say how he got there, unable to remember so much as the decision to go. But there he was, standing on the porch and looking like a soaked rat from the rain that had begun to pour.

“Jon? Why didn’t you text me you were coming over? Here, come inside, you look freezing,” Ramsay said when he opened the door, stepping aside so that Jon could enter. Without thinking, Jon wrapped his arms around Ramsay’s neck, carelessly getting him wet as well. But Ramsay wasn’t angry as he hugged Jon close, arms firmly wrapped around his waist. “What’s wrong, darling? What happened?”

“It’s just been a rough twenty-four hours,” Jon mumbled, greedily stealing Ramsay’s body heat. He was so warm, compared to Jon who couldn’t stop shivering. He bit his tongue to keep his teeth from chattering.

“Let’s get you warmed up then you can tell me all about it, alright? How does a hot bath sound?” Jon just nodded, rubbing the water out of his eyes with one hand as Ramsay lead him upstairs by the other. While Ramsay drew the bath, soon filling the bathroom with steam that was already beginning to help warm Jon, Jon was taking off his sopping wet clothes and letting them plot to the floor in a wet heap of fabric. Then he went over to Ramsay who was kneeling by the tub, arms resting on the side as he watched Jon--there was undeniably lust simmering in his eyes, but he didn’t make any advances--and pulled him to his feet, so that he could tug at the hem of his shirt. “What are you doing?” Ramsay asked with an amused smile, lifting his arms to let Jon pull his shirt over his head.

“I want you to get in with me,” Jon said, working open the buckle of Ramsay’s belt, then pulling it off with a soft _snap_. His pants and boxers were soon to follow, until Ramsay stood just as bare as Jon. Only he was shivering much less.

“Your lips are blue,” he said, lifting his hand to caress Jon’s cheek, dragging his thumb over his bottom lip.

“I’d imagine my fingers and toes are, too.”

They stood like that, naked, watching each other, their only point of contact being Ramsay’s hand on Jon’s cheek. The tub was just over half full, so Ramsay stepped away from Jon to climb in. He pulled on Jon’s hand once he was settled, smiling up at him.

“Come on, I won’t bite.” Jon smiled, at this, giving Ramsay’s hand a squeeze as he got into the hot water. It seared his flesh in a way that made him all but purr in contentment as he sat with his back against Ramsay’s chest, head leaned back to rest on his shoulder. Ramsay kissed his temple, arms coming to wrap around Jon loosely, his fingers laced where they lay over his abdomen.

“You bite worse than a shark,” Jon said, earning him a soft laugh.

“You like it when I bite you, though.”

“Yeah, I do.” He liked being marked, knowing he belonged to someone, and that that someone belonged to him as well. It was more meaningful than even the most jewel-encrusted gold ring, or paperwork that bound two people together. While they had done no ceremonies and spoken no vows, there was something silent between them, an agreement of ‘till death do us part’. Death would be the only thing to take Jon from Ramsay’s grasp.

“I love you,” he sighed, closing his eyes. In this moment, he believed in nothing more than how much he did truly love Ramsay. Ramsay, who his subconscious turned to for comfort in times of need. He turned his head to nuzzle at Ramsay’s neck, pressing soft kisses to his jaw.

“I love you too, darling,” Ramsay said, though he said it with lips downturned into a frown. Jon couldn’t see it, but he heard it in his voice. “What’s wrong, Jon? You’re acting strange.”

“I’m fine.” No, he wasn’t. “It’s just been a long day, is all. I’m tired.” He was so much more than tired. Filled with a bone deep weariness, exhaustion he felt in his soul.

“Do you want to go to bed, then?” Jon shook his head. He didn’t want to go to sleep just yet. He wanted to be held and coddled, he wanted to be weak and be rewarded for it. Ramsay was all too willing to oblige, his fingertips petting up and down Jon’s stomach in a way that had him shivering from something other than the cold that was slowly seeping out of his bones.

Jon was gasping soft moans, little ‘ _ah ah ah_ ’s, by the time Ramsay’s talented fingers finally wrapped delicately around his cock, stroking him to full hardness. He could feel Ramsay’s cock pressed up against the small of his back; he’d been hard for a few minutes as he’d coaxed Jon into arousal.

“Do you have any lube within reach?” Jon asked, his features drawn as he thrust into Ramsay’s hand, careful not to spill the water over the edge of the tub. He felt something disturbing the air in front of his face, and opened his eyes to see a purple and clear plastic bottle of astroglide being presented to him. “You’re wonderful,” he said, holding his hand out for Ramsay to squeeze some of the slick liquid over his fingers. Ramsay had become quite adept at hiding lube all over the place; they never knew when the mood would strike them, and many time it wasn’t in the bedroom.

Bath sex was probably Jon’s favorite, he thought as he reached down past Ramsay’s hand to slowly push two fingers into himself, relishing the slight sting. The warm water kept his muscles and joints relaxed, making his entire body feel all gooey and nice, like he was made of jello. The heat had him light-headed, and his flushed skin was so much more sensitive to touch.

He thrust his fingers in and out in time with Ramsay’s slow strokes, feeling sluggish and lazy. Ramsay didn’t seem to mind, his free hand running over Jon’s side, fingers tracing the bumps and dips of his prominent ribs. The only sound in the room was their movements through the water, and Jon’s soft gasps and moans.

Ramsay wasn’t in the mood to play today, seeming to not into to edge Jon mercilessly as he had last time as he rubbed the pad of his thumb over the head of Jon’s cock, hearing him breathe deeper and faster in a way Ramsay knew meant he was about to release. But Jon stopped him, pull out his fingers and pushing Ramsay’s hand away with a quiet _not yet._ He sat up so that he was no longer slumped back into Ramsay’s chest, boneless, and turned to straddle his thighs. He was slight enough to make the position work, allowing him to sit comfortably on Ramsay’s muscled thighs. He poured more of the lube onto his fingers so that he could slick Ramsay’s cock, before slowly easing it into himself, both moaning together as Jon took him easily to the hilt.

“I love you,” Jon said again, his hand on the side of Ramsay’s neck. His lips brushed against the corner of Ramsay’s but he didn’t kiss him, instead turning his head to lick and nip at his jaw softly. “I love the way you feel, the way you make me feel.”

He rode Ramsay slowly, wanting this to last for as long as it could. Ramsay held him by his bony hips, lifting and lowering him when his legs grew tired, a burn in his thighs. Jon barely noticed when he came, a pleasant, warm haze settling over him from the heat and the chemicals in his brain like the best high. He cried out softly against Ramsay’s neck when he released, sucking softly at the skin between his teeth to leave a light pink mark. Ramsay came soon after, thrusting unevenly into Jon, not caring that the water was splashing out of the tub to soak the floor.

“I love you,” Jon said once more, tiredness settling over him black a blanket of fog. Ramsay stroked his hair, kissed him softly, called him pretty things until he was quietly humming in delight. Ramsay was so good to him that he forgot all the bad.

Ramsay pulled out and stuffed Jon full of his fingers, rubbing at his insides until he was mewling in pleasure. “I like it when you’re full of me,” Ramsay murmured, slowly thrusting. It was too soon for Jon to get hard again, even as waves of arousal rolled over him. “I think I should have you like this more often. You’re like a kitten.” Jon couldn’t agree more, worrying Ramsay’s neck with his teeth and soothing his skin with his tongue, soft laps and kitten-licks.

“Come on, my precious kitten, let’s get into bed.”

He pulled the plug to let the water drain out, then got up and out of the tub, Jon following suit. He dried the other off with a fluffy towel, stopping occasionally to kiss his pink skin and citing wanting to take care of him as the reason for not letting Jon dry himself off when he said he could. He said the same thing when he wrapped a towel around his waist and scooped Jon up in his arms, carrying him into his bedroom like a bride across the threshold. This Jon didn’t protest, merely looping his arms around Ramsay’s neck to hold on and pull him down when he was set on the bed. Ramsay got under the covers with him, pulling Jon against his chest.

“Will you tell me what happened, now?” he asked, dragging his knuckles along the knobs of Jon’s spine.

“I found out that my father murdered my mother,” he said, staring at Ramsay’s chest as he traced circles around his nipple, rather than his face. “And that most of my family on my father’s side are either lunatics, arsonists, or serial killers.”

“That doesn’t mean you’ll be anything like them, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Jon sighed, sliding his arm up and over Ramsay’s side, hugging him and hiding his face against his chest. “Are you so sure about that?”

“As sure as I am about anything else. My sweet Jon, you could never hurt anyone.”

“Theon, a guy I went to school with, was murdered recently. I’m the prime suspect in his case. Are you _sure_ I’m not just as bad as my father?”

“Did you kill him?” Ramsay asked. When Jon didn’t respond, Ramsay tilted his chin up to see Jon’s pretty, watery eyes looking up at him. “Answer me, precious.”

“I don’t know. I might have.”

“I think you would remember if you did.”

“Maybe not. I don’t remember how I got here, tonight. I don’t even remember deciding to. I… I forget things. I have gaps in my memory. For all I know, one of those gaps is me killing Theon…”

“My poor, poor Jon,” Ramsay sighed, stroking his hair back from his face. “Why would you want to kill him? Did he ever hurt you? Threaten to hurt you?”

“Last time I saw him, he… he tried to hurt me. But something happened to me, and I think it scared him, or at least surprised him. I don’t know, I don’t really remember. It was when you came to pick me up at school…” Jon’s eyes widened then, but he didn’t pull away. “You killed him.” Ramsay would have been able to see the whole thing, they had been in plain view of the parking lot. And Ramsay never could stand for anyone else but him to touch Jon. Theon’s hands had been all over Jon, hurting him, making him cry, and Ramsay would have seen it all if he had been there.

Ramsay scowled at him, hurt in his eyes that Jon would even think such a horrible thing about him. “Jon, I don’t go to your school. Even if I wanted to kill this Theon for hurting you, I wouldn’t know who he was.”

“I suppose you’re right…” Besides, Ramsay was no killer. His violence was reserved solely for Jon. He had never said so much as a cruel word to anyone else, let alone hurt them. He would never kill someone.

And besides, now that he was thinking about it, Ramsay hadn’t shown up until after Jon had left Theon; he wouldn’t have been able to see anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck me.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is kind of just a filler chapter, I guess? Idk, I had a dream about this so I had to write it as soon as I woke up lol.

Jon soon fell asleep, peacefully nestled in Ramsay’s arms. Ramsay wasn’t yet tired, though, so he stayed awake, petting Jon’s hair and arm softly. After a little while, his phone rang, the caller ID saying it was Robb. 

“Hello?” he said when he picked up, quiet so that he didn’t wake Jon. 

“Is Jon with you?” He asked, sounding on the verge of panic. “He’s not answering his phone, and my father said he hasn’t seen or heard from Jon in a few hours since he stormed off--he should have been back by now.” With a murderer on the loose who obviously had an interest in Jon, Robb couldn’t help but think the worst; that Jon would be the next victim. Didn’t he know that Ramsay would do anything to keep him safe?

“I have him,” he said, stroking Jon’s shoulder, listening to Robb sigh in relief. “He’s sleeping right now. I thought he would have told you he was coming over for the night.” 

“He didn’t. Do you know if he even has his phone with him?” 

“Uh…” Well, Ramsay hadn’t thought to check if he did or not earlier, and since his clothes were in the other room, he didn’t want to get up and go search for it. “I don’t know.” 

“Alright, just. Have him call me when he wakes up, please.” 

“Of course.” 

“And Ramsay? Take care of him for me.” 

Ramsay frowned, looking down at Jon. He was so peaceful, his features relaxed and soft in a way they never were when he was awake. Absent of pain, or confusing, conflicting thoughts. Of course he would take care of Jon, his precious little doll. But Robb’s words were ominous sounding, as if he was going to do something that meant he wouldn’t be around much longer to take care of Jon himself. 

“I will.” 

***

When morning came, Jon woke to the scent of coffee, seeing a still steaming mug next to a note on the nightstand. He plucked the note up, smiling when he unfolded it and read what it said. 

_ Coffee’s just how you like it. I figure you need something a bit stronger than tea this morning. Come downstairs when you wake up, I’m making breakfast <3 _

  1. _Father’s not here, don’t worry. He’ll be gone for a few days so we have the house to ourselves._



Jon set the note back down in favor for picking up the coffee, sighing appreciatively when he tasted it. It was  _ perfect _ , exactly as he liked it. Creamy and sweet and hot enough to warm him from the inside, but still with the bitter tang of the coffee. 

He stayed in bed for a few more minutes, wrapped up in the blanket as he sipped his coffee, listening to the rain still falling outside. Finally, he pulled himself from the bed and immediately shivered at the cold air caressing his naked body, giving him chills. His clothes were still in the bathroom--and probably wet since he had never hung them up to dry--so he stole one of Ramsay’s shirts and a pair of pajama pants to wear for the day. The shirt was loose on his slight frame, hanging off one shoulder. 

When he got to the kitchen, he found Ramsay humming to himself at the stove, making what looked like pancakes. 

“Who are you and what have you done with my boyfriend,” Jon said lightly, teasing as he set his coffee on the counter so that he could wrap his arms around Ramsay’s waist, hugging him from behind, chin resting on his shoulder to watch him cook. 

Ramsay smiled, turning his head just enough to kiss Jon’s cheek while also keeping his eyes on the pancakes cooking in front of him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You never cook for me.” He honestly hadn’t even known Ramsay knew  _ how  _ to cook. Ramsay flipped the pancake over, lowered the heat, then turned in Jon’s arms to nudge him back until he was pressed against the bar, caged in by his arms. He smiled, kissing the tip of Jon’s nose. 

“I was ordered to take care of you,” he said, leaning his forehead against Jon. He tucked a lock of his long hair behind his ear. “And I intend to do just that. Even if it means learning to cook.” 

“So you  _ can’t  _ cook. I knew it.” 

“I also can’t make coffee to save my life. That’s from Starbucks, all I did was pour it into the mug.” Jon laughed, his eyes just as bright with happiness as his smile. 

“At least you’re honest.”

“Of course I am. I would never lie to you, darling.” 

“I know,” Jon said, his smile softer this time before he leaned in to give Ramsay a sweet kiss. Ramsay smiled against his lips, hands moving to his hips so that he could lift him up onto the counter. The kiss was ended sooner than either of them would like, Jon pulling away with a soft laugh. “You may want to check the pancakes before they burn.” 

“ _ Fuck _ .” He quickly pulled away, sliding the pancakes off of the pan and onto a plate, managing to save them just in time. They were only a little bit singed. “Damnit.” 

Jon hopped down and picked one of them up between his fingertips, careful not to burn himself, and took a small bite of the slightly crunchy edge, then smiled. “Tastes fine to me.” 

“Are you sure? I can try again.” 

“No, really. It’s good.” He drizzled some syrup over his plate, then tore off another piece of the syrup-covered pancake, holding it up to Ramsay’s lips. “See?” 

Ramsay opened his mouth, eating the piece then sucking off the syrup running down Jon’s fingers in a way that had the teen’s cheeks reddening. Ramsay nipped his fingertips and grinned. “Alright, you’ve convinced me.” 

After breakfast, Ramsay had the bright idea to lay Jon, shirtless, over the cleared table and drizzle sticky lines of syrup all over his chest, Jon trying not to laugh all the while as Ramsay licked it off of him, grinning fiercely. It tickled, Ramsay’s tongue lapping over his skin, but it was also such a silly, incongruous sight. They had done many things together, but never anything quite like this. It was a more than welcome change, even though it left Jon sticky. He had to take a shower after; which of course Ramsay joined him for. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminde~ everyone in this story is an unreliable narrator, because they see things only from their point of view. So they think a character means one thing, but it could turn out they meant something completely different.   
> Jon is of course the most unreliable, because the poor bean is so confused that he doesn't know what he wants or feels, it's constantly changing. He's mercurial.   
> Lastly, I love hearing all of your theories, but don't forget: just because Ramsay is the one we see who's the most violent towards Jon, that doesn't necessarily mean he's the one who killed Theon. It could have been anyone ;)


	6. Chapter 6

_One Month Later_

Over the course of the next month, Ramsay was the best boyfriend Jon could have asked for, knowing that Jon was in a precarious state; any wrong move, and Jon would leave him. So he made no wrong moves. He was so kind, making Jon breakfast--or lunch, or dinner, depending on the time--every time he came over, often enough that he’d actually learned how to cook a few things. They went on dates--Jon couldn’t remember the last time that had actually had a _real_ date--and went for walks, spending so much more time together, just enjoying each other’s company. Jon began to forget about how Ramsay used to be, burying all the bad memories under all the new ones, until it was as if they had never happened. He would still wake up sometimes, his heart racing, expecting that it was all just a dream. It was worse then he woke up in Ramsay’s arms, believing he would be hurt again the moment he breathed the wrong way. He was still afraid, sometimes, but it was dull. A slight suspicion hiding just under his skin.

It was apparently unwarranted. Even when he messed up, did something wrong, was sure he angered Ramsay in some way and that he would be tied up and punished or locked away in that closet again, Ramsay was patient with him. Ramsay would hold him and pet his hair and pepper kisses all over his face until he stopped trembling so harshly. Ramsay was _endlessly_ patient with him, in a way he never had been before. And while Jon loved the change, he also feared it. He didn’t want this to be taken away from him, now when he knew how sweet and loving Ramsay could really be, when he wanted. He didn’t want to be thrown back into the darkness of his basement with the whips and chains and ropes, preferring the warmth and softness of Ramsay’s bed instead.

Over the past five weeks, Ramsay had not restrained Jon a single time in any way. He hadn’t hit him, bitten him, scratched him; he had gone to great lengths to make sure Jon was never in any pain, even going so far as to take unnecessary lengths of time for foreplay, wanting to be absolutely sure Jon felt only pleasure; even when sometimes Jon liked a bit of pain.

Jon couldn’t say the same; he scratched Ramsay’s back raw, pulled his hair and bit him until he was covered in marks of his own. Never had he been permitted to touch Ramsay so much before, explore his hands with his body. Rarely was Jon even allowed use of his hands when they had sex, before.

Jon wished that the change in Ramsay would last, but he knew it wouldn’t. Good things never did. He just hoped he would be able to take it when things went back to the way they were, now that he’s been shown a better way.

***

“I think we should get married, when you’re old enough.”

Jon smiled softly, running his fingers through Ramsay’s hair. The man was lying with his head in Jon’s lap on the couch, neither of them really paying attention to the movie playing in front of them. “Really?”

“Yes. We could get a cute little house somewhere, maybe a dog. You like huskies, right? It could be just us, we could have a little family.”

“Hah. You, me, a dog, and a white picket fence, huh?”

“If that’s what you want. Or maybe a cabin in the woods. An apartment in the city. Anything you want, precious.”

“It sounds like you’re asking me to run away with you.”

“Maybe I am. Don’t you want to? You could get away from all of this; your family neglects you, people at school are cruel to you, a murderer is fixated on you; what is there for you but me? I’m the only one who truly loves you in this godforsaken town; if I leave there’ll be nothing to keep you here. So why not come with me? Let me take care of you?”

Unbidden, an image of Robb came to Jon’s mind, his eyes bright and smile fond. That opened the gates to a rush of memories, and Jon knew that Ramsay’s words weren’t entirely true. Ned and Catelyn may not love him, or even really want him around, but Robb did. Robb loved him, was kind to him, took care of him.

But then, Robb wouldn’t want to have to stay tied to Jon forever, taking care of him like a kid. He was just about to begin his career as a lawyer, in the prime of his life as the age of twenty-three. Jon couldn’t tie him down.

“The day I turn eighteen,” Jon said, looking down at Ramsay fondly, leaning down to kiss him. “The day I’m eighteen, we can go down to the courthouse and get married, and I’ll run away with you,” he promised, murmuring the words against Ramsay’s lips. It wasn’t much of a proposal, hardly romantic, but it still filled him with butterflies. He told himself that they were from excitement and anticipation, rather than the dread he knew to be coiling in his stomach at agreeing to something he wasn’t even sure he really wanted. What if Ramsay changed back to how Jon knew him to be, at his core? He wouldn’t be able to escape Ramsay when they married. But then, he wouldn’t be able to escape him even now, now when he didn’t know if he really wanted that or not.  

Didn’t every relationship take effort, both parties having to decide to make it work, even when things got hard?

***

_Two Weeks Later_

A piercing, blood-curdling scream woke Jon in the middle of the night. His name was shouted, it was unmistakably Robb’s voice. Jon clamoured out of bed before he even really knew what was happening, his visions still bleary from sleep, and stumbled down the hall in the direction the scream had originated from. He was met with Robb, frozen and staring as if paralyzed, eyes wide and wet and face as pale as a sheet, contorted into an expression of horror, all color drained from his features. Jon turned to look where Robb’s eyes were trained, and almost screamed himself, barely swallowing it down.

There, laying prone on the bed, was Catelyn and Ned. They were painted in shades of red, Catelyn’s throat slashed open like a necklace of parted flash, holding her dear husband’s head in her hands. His neck was several feet away, connected to his body while he head was not. Jon reached out to grab the door and slam it shut, then pulled Robb forcefully away, taking him downstairs and outside. Only when there was a house between them and the bodies of Ned and Cat did Jon scramble for the phone in his hoodie pocket; he had taken to sleep with it on him, so that he would be woken if Ramsay called or texted him. Now, he called the police, barely able to stutter out their address and what had happened, looking around as if the murderer was still lurking around some where, waiting to come for them next. For all they knew, the killer might be.

Robb kept trying to go back inside, Jon having to do his best to hold him back with one arm when he hung up. “Stop, you can’t go in there! We don’t know if the killer is gone yet or not!”

“I can’t--Mom and dad-- _why_? Why would someone do this, they haven’t done anything to anyone!” Robb shouted, his eyes red-rimmed as tears ran down his cheeks. Jon held him close, offering what little comfort he could. Held him tight until he finally stopped fighting and hugged back, leaning heavily on Jon. Unable to keep both of them standing, Jon sat down on the porch, Robb sitting beside him, weeping against his chest. He didn’t know what to do to make the hurt go away, even for a little while, feeling numb to it himself. It would crash down on him later, most likely, but for now he locked it away. Robb needed him to be the strong one for now, and he wasn’t strong, but he could endure anything, emotional or physical. He could pretend he was strong for a while.

The cops were there within a few minutes, lights flashing and sirens blaring, and with them came the attention of the neighbors, a number of them coming out in their pajamas to see what the ruckus was. Jon was petting Robb’s hair, rubbing his arm, gently rocking him, giving him kisses, telling him it was going to be alright, doing all of the things Ramsay did when trying to calm him down. It worked, somewhat, his wracking sobs dying down to sniffles by the time the officers cleared the house and came out to question them. Jon tried to stay with Robb, not wanting to leave his side right now, but the officers were adamant that he be questioned separately.

“Did you see who did this to your aunt and uncle?”

“No. I was asleep, I didn’t know what had happened until I heard Robb scream and shout my name.”

“Do you know anyone who might want to do this to them?”

“No, no one.” But then, he didn’t know much about Ned and Cat’s social affairs. For all he knew they were drug lords; he wouldn’t have known, although he highly doubted it. “They were kind people. I can’t think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt them. Except...”

“Except what?”

“No, nevermind that’s not possible.”

“We’ll determine what is or isn’t possible, lad. Who do you think might have wanted to hurt your aunt and uncle?”

“Well. The only person I can think of who hated them is Balon Greyjoy.” If Jon had a tinge of green to his pale features, he wouldn’t be surprised. “You don’t think he did this for revenge, did you? He-he still thinks I killed Theon…”

The officer didn’t say anything as he wrote down some notes. Just as he was opening his mouth to ask another question, two men approached. One of them, he recognized as officer Baratheon. The other, an older man.

“Is this another one of yours, lad?” Stannis asked, gesturing for the older man--the tag on his shirt saying D. Seaworth--to hand him an evidence bag. Sealed inside was a page that had been torn out from his journal; there were notes on it, however, that he hadn’t written. He felt violated that this person had not only stolen and searched through his journal, but took it upon themselves to edit his fantasies to fit their own. This time, he really did almost throw up.

“Yes,” he said, his voice shaking just as much as his hand as he handed it back. “I thought he was gone. He hasn’t done anything for over a month, not even tried to contact me!”

“That’s not all we found, lad,” Davos said.

“What else did you find?”

“I think it would be easier to show you.”

“Watch yourself, Davos. The boy doesn’t need to see that.”

“No, I-I want to.” He followed Davos back inside, Robb giving him a strange look when he passed by before disappearing through the front door.

Now, with the room lit by more than the moonlight, Jon was able to see more than he had before. The walls were sprayed and splattered with blood, the bed soaked in it. Catelyn’s eyes were still open and staring, accusingly, at Jon where he stood in the door. And littered around them were pictures. All of them of Jon. When he was at school, at home, even some when he was at Ramsay’s house.

His heart was beating out of his throat when he recognized some of those pictures, ones he knew Ramsay had taken of him, wanting to remember those moments forever. Pictures he was tied up for, stained with blood and come and bruises. One with lashes across his back from a whip, a similar one with welts on the backs of his thighs with a cane. More than a few where he was tied up the point he couldn’t move so much as a finger with yards of soft rope, suspended from the ceiling. Ramsay had called it ‘shibari’. Jon had called it a panic attack he couldn't escape from.

He was blindfolded in all of the pictures, but he could remember Ramsay’s hands on him, the click of a camera snapping pictures of him. No one but him and Ramsay had access to those pictures; Ramsay had all of them, while Jon had a few that had appealed to him. But no one else had access to them, and Ramsay wouldn't have given them away to anyone, he was far to possessive for that.

Jon didn’t know if he just blacked out or completely feinted. But when he came to again, he was sitting in the back of a gourney, wrapped in a fleece blanket while an EMT shined a flashlight in his eyes. He pulled away, closing his eyes against the pain of the brightness, and the EMT smiled at him.

“There you are. You gave your cousin a bit of a scare when officer Baratheon carried you out unconscious.”

“Where is he?”

“Over there with my partner, getting checked out. As soon as I’m done with you, you can go over there, alright?”

“Alright.”

He was antsy as he waited for the woman to be done with him, shrugging it off when she said, with surprise, that he was hardly showing any sign of shock. “I’m not the one who lost his parents tonight,” he said, before making his way over to Robb. Who, unlike him, was in shock.

“How are you feeling?” he asked softly, sitting down beside Robb and wrapping his arm around his waist. Robb leaned against him, head resting on Jon’s shoulder as he stared vacantly at the house, watching officers going in and out.

“Numb,” he finally said after some time of silence. “You?”

“About the same, I think.” Robb nodded, absently reaching up to rub at his eyes; tears had begun to fall again.

“What were you doing inside? Did you pass out?”

“Yeah, uh. Officers Seaworth and Baratheon wanted me to see something and, uh. Well, it probably could have gone better.”

“What did you see?”

“The murderer, he… he left pictures. Of me. Mr. Baratheon thinks it’s the same guy that killed Theon. That he hasn’t tried to contact me because he’s been stalking me all this time.”

“So, what, he killed my parents because of you?” Robb pulled away when he felt Jon flinch at his harsh words and tone, his eyes watering once more as he looked at Jon. “No, Jon, I didn’t mean it like that, I swear. I know this isn’t your fault.”

Jon shrugged, looking down. “Maybe it is. The guy obviously thinks he’s doing me a favor. Protecting me, I guess. If not for me, this wouldn’t have happened.”

Robb was quiet. Jon was right, and they both new it. No, Ned and Cat’s deaths weren’t his fault, but they were definitely connected to him. Just like he said, the killer, now officially a serial killer, was fixated on Jon. Trying to protect him from Theon, who the killer must have seen as abusive, and Ned and Catelyn, who must have been seen as neglectful.

“Do you have _any_ idea who it could possibly be?”

Jon knew exactly who it was. But he was unwilling to confront Ramsay about it yet, didn’t think he could. He needed to talk to Ramsay, first, find out _why_ he was doing all of this, before he went to the police. “I don’t know,” he said.

Robb nodded, accepting that, and leaned against Jon again, arms wrapped around his middle. Jon hugged him back, holding him close until Stannis came back over, having finished with the crime scene. The rest would be left to everyone else.

“I’m going to need you both to come back to the station with me, so that I can get your statements.”

“Alright,” they both said, getting up to follow Stannis back to his squad car.

“Pretty soon, they’ll have to name a hall or something after us,” Jon remarked when they left. Robb didn’t smile. Neither did he. Robb was kept on his feet by sheer force of will, guided by Jon’s arm around his waist. He just wanted to go home, go to sleep, and wake up to this all being a dream. But he knew that wasn’t possible. Instead, one of the cops gave them a ride to their aunt Lysa’s house, seeing as they couldn’t go home while it was still a crime scene.

They spent the rest of the night and much of the day in bed together, wrapped up in each other’s arms against the nightmare that had become their life. Not speaking, not even really sleeping, both lost in their own thoughts. Jon knew what he had to do, but he didn’t think he could do it.


	7. Chapter 7

Mormont hadn’t wanted to interrogate Jon, even after seeing the collection of pictures left behind by the stalker. Not yet, anyway. He would give the boy the mercy to recover from the horror, and question him in a few days time. 

Alliser Thorne, however, didn’t have the same reservations, or care about the fragile state Mormont believed Jon to be in. So he went behind his captain’s back and took Jon right out of class--despite the boys protests--and took him down to the station, treating him as if he were the murderer rather than intended victim. 

“I’m not saying anything until my cousin gets here,” Jon said as soon as Alliser threw a file down on the table. 

“Your cousin won’t be coming, boy. See, he’s a law  _ student _ , not a lawyer. Which means he has no right or reason to be here.” 

“Fine, then I want a lawyer.”

“Do you feel you need one? I thought you had nothing to hide, that you’re ‘just a harmless victim’.”

“I  _ am _ . I haven’t killed anyone!”

“Maybe, maybe not. But that’s not why I brought you here today. Can you guess why?”

Jon stared at Alliser, his eyes cold, met with the pure hate in Alliser’s that he didn’t know what he had done to deserve, and shook his head. He pulled the file towards him when Alliser gestured to it, opening it to see what it contained this time. He felt just as sick as the first time when he saw the pictures it contained, although this time he didn’t pass out when he saw himself bound and bruised and bloody. 

“What does this have to do with anything?” he said, surprised at himself for managing to keep his voice even. 

“Who’s the one that did all that to you?” Alliser countered. 

“Are you suddenly concerned with my well-being? I’m touched.”

“No, I don’t give a damn about you. All I care about is catching the son of a bitch running rampant in my town, and I know that whoever it is is the one that took these pictures. Now  _ who is it? _ Your boyfriend?”

“I don’t know who it is.” 

“Yes, you do. And you’re obstructing justice by not telling me; a punishable offense. Now tell me his name.” 

“I don’t know.”

“Are you saying you were kidnapped, then?”

“What--no!”

“Then who is it.” 

“He’s not the one committing the murders!” 

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because he  _ loves  _ me, he wouldn’t--” Jon’s eyes widened as he realized the slip he’d made, Alliser smirking at him from across the table. 

“You see, Snow, I’ve been thinking about something that hasn’t occurred to the rest of them. Mormont thinks you couldn’t have committed these murders because you’re weak, and broken. And he’s right. But do you want to know what I think? I think you like to  _ watch _ .”

“Why in the hell would you think that?”

“Everyone that’s died, they’ve hurt you, haven’t they? Theon bullied you, your aunt and uncle neglected you. I’m sure someone that loved you would want revenge on your behalf. So you convinced your boyfriend, who we know from those pictures is a disturbed  _ sadist _ , just as disgusting as you, to do what you can’t.”

“No! He wouldn’t.  _ I  _ wouldn’t. I’m not a killer!”

“I don’t believe you!”

“ _ Thorne _ !”

Jon sighed in relief as Mormont came to his rescue once more, barging into the interrogation room. 

“Jon, get out. Seaworth will take you home,” the man said through gritted teeth. Jon left as fast as he could, hearing the men yelling when the door closed. 

He waited by Davos’ desk, the man having to take care of a few things before he could take Jon. Before he came back, Alliser stormed out, red-faced and furious. He had been suspended, in danger of being fired if he pulled this shit with Jon or anyone else again. 

“You ready to go, son?” Davos asked, drawing Jon’s attention from Alliser to himself. Jon stood up, picking up his backpack.

“Yeah, let’s go.” He was beginning to hate coming here.

***

Life continued on. Painfully, and slowly, but steadily. Jon and Robb went to school everyday, Robb dropping him off before heading to the university. Most people at school were convinced Jon was the one that had murdered Theon, and they took out revenge on him daily until the point he just couldn’t keep going. It was Melisandre who told him to take some time away from school, until this was all over. 

***

“Jon, I haven’t seen you in awhile,” she said, having come over when she saw him from across the emergency room. “What brought you here this time?” 

“I think the doctor said I fractured a rib. I don’t know, I wasn’t paying attention.”

“How did that happen?” The question was innocent enough, but Jon scowled at her, knowing what she was getting at. She still believed Ramsay was abusing him, he could see it in her eyes. 

“A fight. At school. Everyone seems to still think I murdered my brother’s best friend and parents.” 

“I was sorry to hear about all of that,” she said, her voice kinder, losing the hard edge of suspicion. He shrugged it off, pulling on his hoodie. 

“That’s what happens when a psycho is stalking you, I guess. People get hurt.” 

She reached out to lay her hand on his shoulder, smiling sympathetically. “I’m sure this will all clear up soon, love. In the meantime perhaps you should take some time off school. It’s my professional opinion that it isn’t safe for you there right now.” He nodded, not seeing any point in protesting when he agreed with her. He didn’t want to go back there; he could make up anything he missed over summerschool. 

“Good boy. And remember, if you ever need anything, you know where to find me.” 

“Actually… I do need something. I meant to ask before, but I haven’t had a chance to come here.”

“What is it?” 

“Painkillers. I didn’t have a chance to grab them before I left, and I can’t go back now, since it’s  crime scene…”   
  


“Of course. I’ll be right back.” She gave his shoulder a squeeze before walking off, coming back a few minutes later with a bottle and a note. “Give this to your principal, and tell them that if they have any problems with it, to call me.”

“Thank you…” Jon looked at the slip of paper; it was a note excusing him from two months of class, Melisandre’s number at the bottom. How sad was it that a complete stranger was going to greater lengths to help him than his own aunt and uncle had? The thought had his eyes misting. 

“Anytime. Don’t hesitate to call if you need anything.” He nodded, keeping himself from hugging her like some scared child only by sheer will as he got up and made his way out of the emergency room to the waiting area, waiting for Robb to get out of class and come pick him up. 

Robb would be at least another two hours--Lysa bore no love for him, and would not come to get him--so he entertained himself on his phone, going through all of the texts that Ramsay had sent over the past few days, that he had not yet responded to. 

_ I just saw what happened on the news, are you alright? _

_ Love? _

_ Jon, are you alright? _

_ Please respond  _

_ JON  _

_ Don’t do this to me, darling, please text me back.  _

_ I need to know you’re safe  _

There was forty-eight more like it, some of them a bit angrier than others, ordering Jon to respond, threatening him if he didn’t, then apologizing and taking it back.  He sighed, deleting them all and putting away his phone, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, ignoring the ache in his ribs that the action caused.

“Jon? Is that you, lad?” 

“Hello, officer Seaworth. What are you doing here?” 

“Davos, please. I’m here for my partner, Stannis. He got shot earlier today.” 

“Is he alright?”

“Oh, yes, he’s fine. Melisandre is takin’ good care of him, not to worry. What about you, though, what brings you here?”

“Fractured rib, among other things.” 

“How did that happen? Were you attacked by the--”

“No, nothing like that. It was just a fight at school.” He shrugged, leaning back in the uncomfortable plastic chair when the strain on his ribs became too much. “Plenty of people still haven’t forgiven me for Theon.” 

Davos scowled, sitting beside beside Jon in the chair next to his, putting his hand on the boys shoulder. “What happened to the Greyjoy boy isn’t your fault.” 

“I know that,” Jon mumbled, scritching idly at his cast. “It’s everyone else who doesn’t.” 

Davos didn’t say anything, not knowing what to say to that. There was silence between them for a few minutes, only broken by the sounds of the E.R. “What’re you still doing here?”

“I’m waiting for my brother to come get me. He’s in class, and probably will be for a few more hours.” 

“I’ll give you a ride.”

“What about Stannis?”

“He’ll be fine for a while. Come on.” He stood, motioning for Jon to follow suit. Jon did, Daos leading him out into the parking lot to his car. For once he wasn’t stuffed into the backseat like a criminal. 

“Have you made any progress on my case?” he asked, quietly, after a few minutes of driving. 

“I’m afraid not, lad. Whoever’s doing this, he’s meticulous. Leaves behind just enough evidence so that we know it’s him, and that what he’s doing it for you, but not enough that we can catch him.”

“Do you have any leads?”

“No. We interviewed Theon’s father, but he was a dead end. Can you think of anyone else who may have done this?”

“I’m sorry, but I honestly don’t know.” 

“Are you  _ sure _ , son? There is no one you can think of who may want to do this?”

“If I knew, I would tell you.”

Once more silence settled over them, this once companionable. Both were in their own thoughts, Jon thinking of Ramsay. It had to be his boyfriend doing this, but Jon couldn’t think of any solid motive why. Perhaps if he had killed Robb, Jon would better understand. He had chosen to spend time with Robb over Ramsay more than once; his cousin was competition for Jon’s affection and attention. And yet Robb had been spared. Unless… 

“What the hell…” Davos said, under his breath, pulling up to Lysa’s house. There were flashing lights and squad cars parked around out front. A coroner, as well. He parked and got out, hesitating for a moment. “Stay here. I mean it, Jon.” 

Like hell he would. “I will.” He did at least wait for Davos to get out of sight, before sneaking out and past the officers milling around to see what had happened. He had to see who it was that had been killed this time, he had to see that it wasn’t Robb. 

“Dammit, boy, I told you to stay!” Davos said, catching sight of Jon. He came forward, pushing Jon away, holding him back when he tried to get past. 

“Stop--let go of me--I want to see!”

“No you don’t. You’ve seen enough death.”

“I need to see who is it.  _ Please _ .”

“ _ No _ . You don’t need to see that.”

“I just need to know it’s not him, not Robb. Please, Davos.” All he could see was red hair and a spattering of what looked liked brain matter, all in a pool of blood. But whoever it was had their face turned away from him, sparing him the gruesome sight. 

“It’s not him,” Davos said, his arms around Jon being the only thing keeping him standing as he sobbed in relief. “It was your aunt Lysa. You can’t stay here any longer, it’s not safe for you.”

“I-I don’t have anywhere else. I don’t have any other family.” 

“You can come stay with me, until this is sorted.” Jon wasn’t in any shape to argue, and doing so was pointless. He really had nowhere else to go, nowhere but with Ramsay, and that was the last thing he wanted. This time, when he got back into Davos’ car, he stayed. 

“In my room--I have a backpack, it has some clothes in it.” Exactly for the chance that this would happen, actually. “Will you get it for me?” 

“I will. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Thank you…”

Davos left, and Jon pulled out his phone, rubbing at his eyes with one hand as he dialed Robb’s number. He didn’t pick up, as Jon had expected, so he texted him instead. 

_ Don’t come back, it’s not safe for you. Stay at school, or with a friend. But DO NOT come back. _


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter, but it's just a filler. Next chapter is where shit gets R E A L. We're going to find out who the murderer really is, why they're doing it, how they've been doing it while staying hidden for so long. Is it Ramsay, like Jon feels he knows, or is it Robb, like he's beginning to really suspect? 
> 
> All shall be answered soon, and tied up with a neat little bow. Then~~ There shall be a sequel, after Jon finally gets free of all this and has a chance to recover. Only if I decide to change the ending of course! Who can say, he may still die! ;)

Jon was numb as Davos took him home, getting him set up in the guest room. He was in shock, most likely, should probably address that. Instead, he laid down in bed and stared at his phone. Ramsay had texted him more, of course. Jon almost called him, or at least texted back, countless times over the course of the next few hours. He typed, and deleted, and types, and deleted, dozens of times, before finally turning his phone off and wandering downstairs. 

“Hey, lad, I was just about to come get you for dinner,” Davos said, looking over at Jon with a smile from where he stood at the stove. “How are you feelin?” 

“I’ve been better,” Jon said. He was still numb to it all. But then, maybe it wasn’t numbness he was feeling, maybe it was just ambivalence. He had no love for Lysa Arryn, nor she for him. Out of the handful of times he had met her, she had been less than kind. She likely would not have taken him in, if not for Robb. Robb she took in for her sister’s sake. Jon she took in because Robb wouldn’t have stayed if she didn’t. 

“I had a question for you sir--Davos,” he said, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his hoodie that he almost never took off these days. He wore it like armor, hiding in the folds of the fabric. 

“What can I do for you?”

“It was Lysa, wasn’t it?”

“... Yes. Her boy was off with his step-father, thankfully.”

“How did she die? I--I want to know.”

“Jon--”

“Please.”

Davos sighed, turning fully to look at him. “It looks like she jumped from the top story window, over the driveway. We don’t know that she was murdered, son; her husband said she’s been melancholic ever since her husband died.”

“She was crazy, but she wasn’t suicidal,” Jon said indelicately; he had no qualms about speaking ill of the dead. “She  _ was  _ murdered. He did this, I know it.” Jon had told Ramsay about Lysa, once, when they were hanging out at Ramsay’s house. And now she was dead, because he had been careless. 

“You shouldn’t be thinking about these things, Jon, they’re not good for you.”

“What else should I be doing, pretending everything is alright? That my entire family isn’t being picked off, one by one, because some  _ psycho  _ wants to _ fuck me _ ?” 

“Jon,” Davos said, sharply, coming to stand in front of Jon. He grabbed the teen by the shoulders, giving him a light shake and looking at him sternly. “Breathe, son, and listen to me. We’re not going to let anyone get hurt because of this man. And I’m going to keep you safe, alright? I won’t let him get to you, or your cousin.”

“How can you say that? Clearly he does what he wants, I don’t think you can stop him.” Davos couldn’t keep this man away when he had finally decided that he didn’t want to stay in the shadows any longer. When he finally decided to come for Jon, all the officers in their town wouldn’t be able to stop him. 

“It’s my Jon to stop men like him, son, and I’m not going to let anyone hurt you anymore.” 

Davos pulled Jon into a warm hug, and he didn’t even realize he was crying until he felt Davos rubbing his back comfortingly, telling him it was all going to be alright. 

 

***

Robb called him later that evening, rightfully freaking out. 

_ “What’s happened?” _

“Lysa’s dead.”

_ “Are you alright?”  _

“Yes, I was…” At the hospital, for reasons Robb did not know about and didn’t need to know about. “I wasn’t there.” 

_ “Where are you now?”  _

“I’m staying with officer Seaworth. I’m in protective custody now, I guess. What about you, you didn’t go back, did you?” 

_ “No, I’m staying at the dorms.”  _

“Okay, good…”

“Hey,” Robb said softly, his voice like a hug. “It’s all going to be over soon. Everything’s going to be alright.”

Jon laughed humorlessly, although the way Robb said it’s all going to be over soon sent a chill down his spine that felt like a premonition. “So everyone keeps telling me. But don’t worry about me, worry about yourself, alright? He won’t hurt me.” 

_ "Do you really believe that?” _

“... No, but I  _ want  _ to.” Of course the killer would hurt him. He wanted to do everything to Jon that he had written about in his journal. Everything that he changed to better suit his own fantasies. “Oh my god,” Jon whispered. 

" _What? What’s happened?”_

“I just realized why all of this is happening to me,” Jon said, feeling sick. He should have realized sooner. “Because of my journal--He wants to do all of that to me, thinks I  _ want  _ that to be done to me.” And who’s to say he wasn’t? He did want those things done to him, knowing how bad and horrible they were. How likley they were to kill him, if even the slightest thing went wrong. 

“ _ Jon… _ ” They hadn’t talked about this yet. Not the journal, or the bruises on his body, or the pictures found with Ned and Cat. Jon had hedged every attempt Robb made to bring it up, not wanting to talk about that of all things, with his cousin. He didn’t ever want Robb to know about that side of him, didn’t want Robb to be disgusted with him because of everything he let Ramsay do to him, everything that he liked Ramsay doing to him. Relished it, craved it, the pain and blood that came with his touch. 

“He thinks I’m just as sick as he is.” 

“ _ You’re not sick, Jon _ ,” Robb said, even as his voice belied his words. He didn’t sound like a man that believed a word he was saying. He hesitated, now, wanting to ask, but at the same time not wanting to  _ know _ . He could pretend he hadn’t seen if he didn’t ask. But if Jon confirmed his suspicions, that would make it true.  _ “Is Ramsay the one that did all of that to you? The things in the pictures?” _

Jon thought back to when he and Ramsay were first dating. They’d had sex the night before, the first time Ramsay had ever hurt him--Jon still wasn’t sure how he felt about caning, other than it was inconvenient because it made sitting down agonizing--and he’d been trying to hide how much it had hurt to sit down. Robb had teased him about it, giving him hell as older boys tended to do. But then he had said he didn’t care what Jon and Ramsay got up to, because as far as he was concerned, Jon was old enough to make his own decisions about sex. Jon smiled and nodded, but it was like ice water in his veins. Ever since, whenever he and Ramsay had a bad night, he would think of Robb saying ‘I don’t care what he does do you,’ every time he saw him. 

“You know he was.” 

_ "Why did you let him? Why didn’t you tell me he was hurting you, or go to the police?”  _

Jon closed his eyes with a sigh, knowing his cousin would never understand. He was a good, upstanding member of society; he wasn’t sick and broken like Jon was. 

“Because I wanted it.”

 ***

Jon didn’t believe that Davos could protect him. And if he tried, he would only get himself killed. Jon was tired of being the reason for murder, so he decided that one way or another, this would end tonight. He waited until late in the night, after Davos had retired and gone to sleep. When the house was silent, Jon finally crept out of bed, bottle of painkillers rattling softly in his pocket. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always~ Please vote for the next update, and enter any prompts you would like to sea because I will no longer be accepting after may 30th, one day from today! Not until I finish all the wonderful ones I have now, at least.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!! THIS IS IT YALL 
> 
> There will be one more chapter and an epilogue after this! 
> 
> Content warnings: human vivisection, suicidal thoughts/possible ideation, character death, Ramsay in general

The night was cold and wet, but Jon found solace in it just the same as he walked down the dark, empty streets. He wandered aimlessly, his feet carrying him in the direction of where he had lived with the Starks. It was not his old house that he went to, however, but the park a small ways away from it. The park he had often gone to with Ramsay. He smiled, just a bit, going to sit on the still standing swing, swaying back and forth as he looked up at the stars. 

Jon stayed just like that, for a long time, feeling somewhat at peace. Humming softly along to nothing in particular, he pulled the bottle of pills out of his pocket. He popped off the cap and shook out a handful of pills. Dropping the bottle to the ground, the rest of the remaining pills spilling into the overgrown grass, Jon took out his phone with his other hand, taking a picture of the handfuls of pills to send to Ramsay, captioned with,  _ this needs to stop. If you won’t I will. _

He grinned. If Ramsay wanted to play games of life and death, then he would play. With that in mind, he started taking all of the pills, one by one, swallowing them dry. By the time his hand was empty once more, he felt as if he was floating on a cloud, holding onto the swing’s chain to keep himself from falling as he continued to sway, staring up at the stars once more. They were beautiful, swirling all around the sky. Or maybe that was just his brain dying, he didn’t know. 

***

Ramsay felt nothing but relief wash over him when he finally got a text from Jon. And then nothing but dread when he saw just what it was. Without hesitating, he flew out of bed, dressed as quickly as he could, and then ran out to his car, activating the tracker in Jon’s phone to find him. 

***

By the time Ramsay got to the park, Jon was barely conscious. Ramsay didn’t even think he was, at first, his eyes closed and body still where he sat on the swing, near falling off. Ramsay ran to him, grabbing his cheeks and tilting his head up to see if he was even still alive. Jon looked up at him blearily, a dazed half-smile on his lips. 

“I was wondering if you’d make it,” he said, quiet, voice slow. All Ramsay could ask was why, shouting at Jon. “None of this would have happened if not for me. So if I’m not here anymore, it won’t happen anymore.” No one else had to die because of him. After he died, it would all be over. 

Fear and outrage in his eyes, Ramsay squeezed the hinged of Jon’s jaw to keep his mouth open and prevent him from biting, forcing two fingers down his throat with his other hand until Jon gagged. He tried pulling away, struggling sluggishly and falling to the ground, but Ramsay was relentless. Jon choked and gagged and tried to pull away, to no avail, tears streaming down his cheeks; a reflex to how much it hurt. He didn’t want to be saved, he just wanted it all to  _ end _ .

Despite Ramsay’s efforts, he couldn’t get Jon to throw up the pills. Jon had spent so much time learning to fight his gag reflex, thanks to Ramsay. He fell into unconsciousness to the sound of Ramsay angrily screaming at him, 

***

Davos thought Jon deserved as much rest as he could get, so he didn’t wake the boy up the next morning. But when morning became afternoon, and then afternoon getting close to evening, he grew concerned. He went up to Jon’s room, expecting to find him still in bed and just lacking any motivation to get out of it. But the bed was empty, and by the looks of it, had been for a long time. 

There was no note to say where he’d gone or why, nor was there signs of a struggle. It appeared that Jon had gone willingly, but with this specific murderous stalker on the loose, he could have been kidnapped. Davos ran downstairs to call it in, then got Robb’s number from Stannis to call him. 

“Robb, have you seen or heard from your cousin today?” he asked, not beating around the bush in the least. 

“No-Is he missing?”

“Aye, he is.”

“Has he been kidnapped by the murderer?”

“I can’t say. There were no signs of a struggle. Is there anywhere he might’ve gone?”

“There’s, uh, I don’t know there’s a park he used to go to? He could be there?”

“Alright, where is it?” Robb gave him directions, then insisted he go with, immediately getting shot down. “Absolutely not, you need to stay at school. For all we know, you’re next on the murderers list.”

***

When Davos got to the park, he was only half-surprised to see that Robb was already there, looking around as he waited for him in the ankle deep grass. He was holding something, his face frozen into a mask of anguish and fear. 

“What’d you find, lad?” 

Wordlessly, Robb handed him the bottle of empty pills. Davos turned it over to see that it was indeed Jon’s prescription, the label having his name on it. 

“You don’t think he…” Robb couldn’t bring himself to say it, shaking his head in denial. “No, no he wasn’t… like that. He wouldn’t.” Davos didn’t know what to say. It wouldn’t be any stretch of the imagination to think of Jon as suicidal, with all that had been going on. He showed all the signs, as well. 

“There’s no body,” he finally said. “We can’t assume anything yet.” 

***

Robb made his way to Ramsay’s house, determined to find the bastard. Jon could say he wanted the things Ramsay did to him as much as he wanted, but Robb didn’t believe it. Didn’t believe anyone capable of committing those things was incapable of being the murderer. 

But he found neither Jon nor Ramsay in the empty house, and was eventually forced to admit defeat, going back to school to wait in hopes for good news, dreading that he would get a phone call asking him to come and ID Jon’s body. 

***

Ramsay gripped the scalpel in an expert hand, spinning it through his fingers, before dipping into the bowl of rubbing alcohol to his side. Jon lay prone in front of him, long lashes of his closed eyes brushing his cheeks and casting shadows over his ivory skin. Jon was his beautiful porcelain doll, so pretty with his soft lips and soft hair. His chest was rising and falling steadily as he slept, the pills having taking his consciousness but not his life. More peaceful than he had been in a long time. Perhaps more than he had ever been. Ramsay gave him that peace, would give him anything. Ramsay thought he would take this chance to ensure Jon would never be able to leave him; because surely he would try, now, after all that’s happened. He went so far as to try and kill himself, just to escape. But no, Ramsay wouldn’t let Jon escape him, even in death. 

He smiled, running his hands down the line connecting to the needle in the crook of Jon’s elbow, carefully pulling out the IV so that soon he would wake up. He brushed his gloved hand over Jon’s cheek, unable to feel the smoothness of his skin; such a shame. He would have to make up for it later, exploring every inch of his perfectly unmarred body once he was done.

The blade of the scalpel was dripping when Ramsay pulled it away from the bowl. He tapped it a few times to let the excess alcohol drip off, before carefully sliding it down the center of Jon’s chest. His pale flesh parted easily for the blade, and his eyes stayed closed. Ramsay just kept cutting, smiling with a light of insanity in his eyes, until he could peel back Jon’s flesh to reveal organs and bones. He lovingly stroked down Jon’s sternum and along his ribs, tracing them one by one with his fingertips, until Jon’s eyes fluttered open.

“Hello, beautiful,” Ramsay cooed. “Don’t try to move, you’ll just hurt yourself,” he said when Jon struggled to pull at the restraints binding his wrists and ankles. It was no use; he was sluggish with the drugs pumping through him, his limbs heavy. He was all but paralyzed, unable to stop what was being done to him.

“R-Ram-say… What are yo-you…” Slowly, the pain was coming to him. It started off as a slight thing, like a bee sting, then it was as if a farm of fire ants had been released inside him, biting and devouring him from the inside. He screamed when he saw the inside of himself, his chest carefully opened up like a scarlet, velvet-lined jewelry box, his insides glistening like rubies. There was nothing else he could do but scream.

“You’re so lovely. I’ve always wanted to know what you’re insides look like. My lovely boy.”  He set the scalpel aside, no longer needing it, and instead picked up some other tool. Jon recognized it as something that was used for carving in the woodshop class. His eyes were blurred, and his tongue was too heavy in his mouth to form protests as Ramsay turned it on and the high sound of it’s whirring started. He held it expertly in hand, lowering the pointed tip to his sternum.

Jon couldn’t feel the metal grinding away at his bone, but he could hear it. The high pitched buzzing as it cut through him not quite with ease; at least, not as much ease as the scalpel had. He could barely see through the tears blurring his vision, but he could just make out the way his heart hammered behind the cage of his ribs, trying to burst out, as if it wanted to leap into Ramsay’s hand.

“Now I’ll be with you always,” Ramsay said when he finished the engraving, turning off the little rotary tool. He look off the glove on his left hand, tracing the letters down Jon’s breastbone; his signature, beautifully written inside him forever. “When we are no more than piles of bones, decomposed remains in the Earth, I will always be with you.” He slid his palm, sterilized in rubbing alcohol before he’d begun, along Jon’s ribs, delighting in the sticky-slippery feel of them. When he saw Jon’s hammering heart, he couldn’t resist slipping his still-gloved right hand under his sternum to gently place his palm over it, feeling it pulse against him. There were tears in his own eyes at the beauty of it, of quite literally holding Jon’s life in his hand.

“Tell me your heart beats for me, only for me,” he said, stroking his thumb delicately over Jon’s inferior vena cava, as if he were petting a butterfly’s wing.

“My heart-my h-heart beats o-on-only for y-you,” Jon said, his voice a broken sob. He didn’t dare move, even as his body was screaming to arch away from the touch, to get Ramsay’s hands  _ out of his body. _

It was a kind of control Ramsay had never had over Jon before. Of course there was always the threat of him going just a little too far, his teeth sinking a little too deep, his blade sliding through the wrong part of Jon’s flesh. But now, all he had to do was just  _ squeeze _ . It wouldn’t take much to crush Jon’s heart, to end his short life that was really just beginning.

“I-I tru-u-ust you. R-Ram, I t-trust you,” He said, even as he couldn’t bring himself to look at Ramsay. Couldn’t look anywhere but at the back of his eyelids, his eyes clenched shut. Still tears rained down, sliding from the corner of his eyes and back to soak his hair. Ramsay grinned, his teeth glinting in the single bare bulb that lit the basement, dangling above them.

“You shouldn’t,” he said, and squeezed.

***

A boy with long black curls was dropped in the ambulance bay, shirtless and cold and alone. His arm was around his middle, desperately trying to hold himself together and keep his insides inside as they threatened to spill out. He could barely see or stand to walk, dizzy, his heart beating erratically. He tried to stumble his way to the emergency room doors, but he didn’t make it, collapsing just in front of them. His hand slid down the glass of the sliding doors, leaving a smeared, bloody handprint. He pulled out his phone fingers slipping over the screen as he unlocked it and went to the favorites in his contact list, dialing the one person who may be able to help him.

“Dr. Meli--out--ambulance bay _ \--help-- _ ”

The last thing he heard before the darkness took him for good was a blood-curdling scream.

***

“Let me see him!”

Jon woke to the sound of Robb arguing with a nurse outside, the nurse threatening to call security if he didn’t calm down. He didn’t give a flying fuck, not caring about anything but seeing Jon and making sure he really was at least alive, if not alright.

“Sir, I know you’re worried, but he’s resting--”

“Worried? I’m scared to  _ death _ . He’s all I have left, now  _ let me see him _ .”

“Robb,” Jon croaked, his voice hoarse, his throat aching. He could taste the distinct tang of copper on his tongue, and he wondered if he had really screamed himself bloody this time. Within seconds the curtain was pulled back to reveal Robb and the nurse that looked honestly fed up with dealing with him, and Melisandre trying to mediate. Robb was by his side in three strides, taking his hand. Jon could see that Robb wanted to hug him, but was terrified to, not wanting to hurt Jon further.

All of it, the hospital, the way Robb was looking at him, the pain in his chest, solidified everything that happened to him in his mind. It made it all real, what Ramsay had done to him. He let go of Robb’s hand to pull up the borrowed scrub top he wore, a choked off scream getting caught in his throat when he saw the stitches in his chest; he looked as if someone had done an autopsy on him, a ‘Y’ carved into his flesh.

He clawed at the sutures, a cry like a keen coming from his throat as he tore through him, and he couldn’t even say why he was doing it other than wanting to  _ see _ . See if Ramsay really had carved his name into his bones, so that Ramsay would always be inside of him, a part of him.

“Jon, Jon  _ stop _ ! You’ll just make it worse!” Robb caught his wrist, pinned his arms to the bed as the nurse called for assistance, and Jon soon found himself restrained. That only made him panic further, and he felt as if he were once more under the knife in Ramsay’s basement. He couldn’t tell the difference between what was reality and his mind anymore, flashing back and forth between the two. Sometimes the blue eyes above him were filled with concern and accompanied by a grimace, and other times they were filled with a disgusting sort of glee, paired with a terrible smile that was all teeth. All the while he was speaking, not hearing his own words or seeing the effect they were having on Robb.

“He-he killed me. He grabbed my heart--I  _ died _ \--he made me say it was his--how am I alive--why did he do this to me--” He was laughing and crying and inside he was screaming even as the front of him became drenched in blood, soaking through the borrowed clothes and bed linens beneath him, and everyone was looking at him as if he were mad, even Robb. Perhaps he was, Ramsay had finally broken him, snapped his mind clean in half and then cut it to pieces, like he did to Theon’s remains. Crushed his sanity to bits, until he was just as broken, just as  _ twisted  _ and  _ sick  _ and  _ fucked up  _ as Ramsay was. All it had taken was his death quite literally at the other’s hands.

“Why did he--he saved me--he brought me here--it couldn’t have been anyone else--I know it was him--” Ramsay had brought him back to life, he must have, then driven Jon to the hospital to leave him, to give him a chance at surviving.

Jon was laughing again even as he sobbed, even as Robb touched his face and wiped away his tears and tried to calm him down, fix him. He couldn’t be fixed, not after how much Ramsay had fucked him in every way. Ramsay didn’t have to engrave his name in Jon’s ribs to stay inside him forever; Jon would never escape him in his mind. He was there, engraved in his memories, permanently projected on the back of his eyelids every time he closed his eyes.

“He loves me,” Jon said, and kept saying it. Ramsay loved him. He put his name in Jon irreversibly, carved out a part of his insides so that he could occupy the space instead until there was nothing left of Jon. He wasn’t just writing his name to mark his territory, he was signing his masterpiece, like an artist signing their beloved creation. Ramsay loved him. He wanted Jon to live, to be just like him, so that now Jon could finally, truly be with him.

Robb was pulled away from Jon, staring at his cousin with wide eyes as Jon devolved right in front of him. He was cracked, fractured, like a porcelain doll that had been dropped to shatter on the ground, left in a heap of pieces to be poorly reassembled. The pieces didn’t fit, they didn’t make the same shape, the same doll. They made a poor imitation, with cracks and missing pieces, a hollow replica of what was once innocent and beautiful.

The nurse called for Jon to be sedated so that they may redo the stitches he tore out, and to give him a chance to rest, calm down, move past the shock of dying twice in one night. Within the same hour, at the hands of one he believed himself to love, and be loved by.

All this time, Jon thought it was the sweet boy, the pretty lies and false smiles, that he loved, while it was the dark shadows within the hollow porcelain doll he hated. Now he knew that wasn’t true. It was the shadows concealed by the porcelain that he loved. He was finally able to admit to himself that it wasn’t really sweet kisses and caresses he wanted, but sharp teeth and glinting knives. He would give Ramsay his heart, ached to feel his hand close around the beating muscle once more, an intimacy he could never get from just sex.

 

***

Jon dreamed. He tried that the hands stitching his flesh back together were Ramsay’s. That the fingers plucking the stitches out of him was Ramsay. The hands inside his body, playing with his organs and stroking his bones, and taking him apart, were all Ramsay. All the while he boyfriend crooned how much he loved and adored Jon. How they would always be together, now, in their own delightfully fucked up world, drenched in blood. 

 

When he woke, Jon decided to go, seek out Ramsay. Rarely did dreams come true, but this one could. 

***

Jon wasn’t supposed to be released for several nights at least. Even still, he could be seen wandering down the dark street in a set of black scrubs and borrowed shoes, walking back towards his home. His real home, not the house he had lived in with Ned and Cat and Robb. No, tonight he was going back to Ramsay, back to his cold arms and cold basement, where he belonged. But it wasn’t Ramsay who welcomed him with his cruel smile. No, it wasn’t open insanity that welcomed him home, but restrained cruelty. Roose Bolton smiled down at Jon, that strange, tight-lipped smile he had. There was desire in his eyes, lust, a hunger that Jon recognized, but instead of filling his veins with fire that burned him from within, he was frozen. Unable to move under the elder Bolton’s cruelty

“Jon,” he said, a voice a silky purr. Perhaps in different circumstances, Jon would be interested. The man did have such a nice voice that, were he not even more terrifying than Ramsay, he could listen to all day. But Roose wasn’t Ramsay. He didn’t love Jon as his son did, didn’t have that to temper his cruelty. “I didn’t expect to see you. Are you looking for Ramsay?”

Wordless, Jon nodded. He ignored the tremble in his limbs when Roose beckoned him forward, into the house that he’d spent so much time it it was like his own.

“I’ll take you to him.”

Something wasn’t right. The atmosphere was off in the house. Roose’s behavior was off, as well. But Jon didn’t realizes just how  _ wrong  _ everything was until Roose led him down into the basement. He turned on the lights, and Jon  _ screamed _ , stumbling back against the wall.

There, hanging suspended in front of him, was Ramsay. Skin stripped from his flesh everywhere but his face, still frozen in a mask of agony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the mystery is solved! shoutout to Clearsnow who called it on the first attempt!


	10. Chapter 10

Ramsay was screaming, fighting and pulling at the bloodied ropes around his wrists. So many times he had tired them around Jon’s slender wrists, the rough twine permanently stained with his blood. Now, Ramsay’s was steadily dripping down to mix in the fibers. He didn’t know why this was happening to him, why his father was doing this. But asking was the last thing on his mind when Roose started _peeling_. He started with Ramsay’s toes, slowly tearing off his nails with a pair of pliers until Ramsay’s vision was spots of black and white. Then, with a knife sharpened to surgical precision, he began cutting away at Ramsay’s skin until all that was left was the flesh underneath. He got as far as Ramsay’s navel before the pain was finally too much to bear. But Roose didn’t stop, stripping away his skin all the was up his neck, until his jaw. He would be such a lovely decoration, a wonderful conversation piece.

Roose didn’t care about Ramsay’s little relationship with Jon. Didn’t care that Ramsay routinely hurt him in every way, breaking him in, molding him into something else. It just saved Roose the trouble of having to waste so much energy on making Jon perfect for him, while keeping it all a secret. But the moment Ramsay started talking about running away, taking Jon with. No, no, no, Roose couldn’t have that.

After stringing up the little monster that was his disgrace of a son, Roose looked to the pile of loose, bloody skin, and got to work.

***

Everything was beginning to blur together. He could hear a voice, maybe, sounding as if it was coming from underwater. Or maybe like he was the underwater one, unable to breathe, so much pressure in his lungs, feeling like he throat was closing up, his head pounding as if from lack of oxygen. His body was pulsing with pain, so much that he could no longer tell where one pain ended and another began, all melding together with each other.

He didn’t know where he was. A damp, dark basement, smelling of mildew and blood. A sterile hospital room, smelling of antiseptic and too much clean. Or was that burning flesh he smelled, accompanied by searing pain.

His spine creaked as his back arched, so many volts of electricity pulsing through him until he screamed his throat hoarse, coughed up blood, his vision dancing with spots of black and white. His ears were ringing; he couldn’t tell if it was from the cacophony of sounds finally causing his auditory senses to fail, or from his head being struck one time too many.

He just wanted it all to end. A stop to this madness, before it consumed him as it had Ramsay, and his father, the same madness that he knew already ran in his blood. A break, at least, just a few moments where he didn’t hurt. God, it had been so long since he’s been without pain, his body not shrieking in agony in one place or another. How old had been? He couldn’t even remember the last time, even before Ramsay there had been hurt. With Ramsay it had just evolved into more, into suffering the likes of which he hadn’t known a human could withstand.

But then, he’s always been good at withstanding things. Always able to take the hits and roll with the punches and ask for more like it was what he really wanted. Maybe it was? He just didn’t know anymore.

Sharp teeth sank into his flesh and he screamed that no, no this wasn’t what he wanted. Ramsay could twist him around all he liked, his father could beat him and hurt him and say that this was all his own fantasies, but no, he didn’t want this. He _couldn’t take this._

***

“I’ve found him!”

He was being untied and picked up and something wrapped around him. He thought maybe he could recognize the voice, but he couldn’t be sure. Could see the face to verify his suspicious, couldn’t even open his eyes to see. Or maybe they were open, they certainly felt open. Uncovered, he couldn’t feel a blindfold.

He--Roose had taken his eyes. Of everything else, he had taken his _eyes_ , too. Jon would never see again, the last thing he would ever remember seeing being _Him_ , with his sadistic, self-satisfied smirk, lips and teeth stained with Jon’s blood.

God, he just wanted it to end. Prayed for an end to everything. He would give anything to just be blissfully left to drift through some place in complete darkness. Not a constricting kind, no, never again would he be somewhere like _that_. It would certainly cause his fragile heart to finally stop beating if he were ever locked away in a place like before. No, he would rather be somewhere like space, floating amongst the stars. He always felt so small, so insignificant, compared to the sheer vastness that was the cosmos. It was a comforting thought, if a humbling one. H never would have thought before that feeling so insect-like and alone would be a comfort but then, he’d never felt such a primal need to be away from anyone and everyone. Anything that breathed or talked or made any noise, he wanted it away from him.

Maybe when this was all done for, he would just up and leave. He could go somewhere to always be alone, where he could always see all of the stars, none of them hidden by the light pollution that came from living in cities or towns.

Maybe he just wouldn’t survive this, and he could go join them in the sky.

***

“He’s got something wrapped all around--”

“What is--?”

"Good Lord, is that _skin--_?”

He was strapped down to a gurney, being rushed through the emergency room. He thought he could perhaps see Melisandre’s red hair, but it might just be blood in his eyes, clouding his vision with a crimson tint to the world. So he want blinded after all, not really. Not all the way at least, everything was just so fuzzy, like looking through frosted glass.

“Jon? Stay with us, dear, alright?”

“He’s flatlining--”

He really did feel like he was drowning now. His vision going all shimmery, like he was quietly slipping beneath the surface of a perfectly still, clear pond. His smile was delirious, perhaps even a bit manic, his perfect white teeth stained red, blood spilling past his lips as he stared blankly up at the ceiling, bright lights rushing by and fading to silver. It was a sight enough to given a bit of a fright to the med students, who were lucky enough to have never seen such a tragic sight; a young man whose picture they’d seen plastered all over the news and papers, much younger than themselves, having been so horribly tortured for so long only to be finally freed. And now that he had a chance to be truly free from his hell, he was going to die, and he was happy about it. Waiting for it all to end, even as one of the students got onto the gurney to begin chest compressions, trying to start his heart once more, to keep him from finally reaching his peace.

Perhaps it would be kinder to let him slip under that pond, drift away to the bottom, it would certainly be easier for him, but no. No, that’s not what they were there for, it went against everything they were taught.

Minutes wet by, before finally he took a shuddering gasp, and hoarsely whispered in a tone so quiet that only Melisandre could hear, “ _no..._.”

***

“Mr. Stark, you need to understand that Jon is in extremely fragile condition right now. His injured have been tended to, but his mind… any misstep could break him. A single wrong word, or look. You need to be careful with him; treat him like spun glass.”

“Is he going to be alright?”

“He’s beyond what I can fix, I’m afraid. I can only fix matters of the body. And while everything he’s gone through has wounded him greatly, it’s his psyche that’s truly been ravaged. It will be a long time before he can truly be himself again, before he can even remember who he is.”

“Are you saying he has amnesia?”

“I’m saying he’s been so taken advantage of and twisted from such a young, vulnerable age, that he didn’t have a chance to grow and develop as he should have. He’s been conditioned to withstand things that not even a hardened soldier should be able to, and even worse, to truly believe he enjoys them. Craves it, even. He doesn’t have amnesia, there’s just no one he can remember previously being, but this shadow of himself he’s been turned into by those men.”

“What do I need to do to help him?”

“You need to make sure he stays away from any stressful situations, anything that can remind him of what happened. And you need to make sure he goes to therapy; I know a woman who deals in cases like him, she’s very good. I’ll give her a call to make sure she can work something out with the both of you.”

“Thank you, doctor.”

“I’m going to keep him for a week or two, just to make sure he heals as he’s supposed to. After that, you need to make sure to keep a close eye on him, to ensure he doesn’t try to take his own life again.”

“I will.”

“I can’t promise that either of you will be alright, now, but I can promise you’re safe. Nothing like this will happen to either of you ever again. And Robb? Perhaps you should consider therapy as well, you’ve been through a lot too. More than someone your age should ever have to go through.”

“I will,” he said again, with a weak smile, before going to find Jon. For just over three weeks he had been missing, hidden away and at Roose’s mercy. Robb couldn’t fathom how he had managed to survive; he hadn’t even recognized his cousin, between the bruises and blood and bandages covering most of his body. There wasn’t a single part of him that went unmarked; the father had done so much worse to him than the son.

Jon looked like a corpse, his body thin and _frail_. So much so that Robb imagined he could be able to see the gaps between his ribs, were they not wrapped up in bandages. He was gaunt, pale under all the red-brown and blue-purple and green-yellow. Like a ghost merely waiting to ascend from its mortal vessel. Robb knew it was selfish that he didn’t want Jon to leave his, had begged him to live every day and night for the last five days. He had already lost everyone else, he wouldn’t be able to take losing Jon as well. His little cousin, more precious to him than anything else, something he was only now realizing, at the threat of losing him.

“Are you ready to wake up yet, kid?” he asked, sitting beside the bed, so big that it seemed to just swallow Jon up. He really did look like a kid in it.

Jon had been comatose since shortly after he was admitted, unresponsive to any tests the doctors and nurses ran. It was like he really was dead, kept alive only by life support. He knew it wouldn’t be long before he was encouraged to let the doctors pull the plug, a few weeks at most. But he knew Jon would wake up before then. His cousin was strong, always had been. And while he shouldn’t have to, Robb knew he could take anything. Survive anything. He would survive this too, he had to.

“Come on, Jon. It’s safe, I promise. You don’t have to be afraid to wake up, he can’t get you. Neither of them can, now.” He reached out to take Jon’s hand, delicately like he was touching a bird’s broken wing. There was a needle pushed into the back of his hand, lodged into a vein to keep him pumped full of who knows what. Even his hands were a gruesome sight, skin cracked and torn and bloodied and raw, nails torn from his flesh, likely to leave him defenseless, unable to scratch or claw at Roose. Robb wondered what Jon had done to make the man do something so horrific to him, but ultimately didn’t want to know

The fingers on that hand twitched, and Robb’s eyes widened. He looked up at Jon, full of home, and saw his expression contort to one of discomfort, pain that was dulled, but still there.

“Hey, can you hear me?” Robb asked, his eyes wet and voice shaking. “Jon?”

His pretty brown eyes, now blood-shot and red-rimmed, were slowly opening, and Robb was smiling because that was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“Hey, Jo, I’ve missed you,” he said, rubbing at the tears in his eyes with his free hand, trying to compose himself. But Jon didn’t respond, didn’t even register that Robb had spoken to him, staring at the ceiling with glassy eyes. “Jon?” he asked, now unsure.

He was catatonic, according to Melisandre. His body was healing, but his mind had, to put it simply, shut down. He was unwilling and unable to deal with that had happened to him, finally reaching his limit.  

Robb realized, with a sick feeling, that he had seen Jon like this before. He just hadn’t realized it was anything so serious, chalking it up to him simply being a spacy teenager, zoning out of daydreaming. Every single one of those times had been after he came home from spending time with Ramsay.

“You must give him time, Robb. He will come back to us with time.”

“I’ll give him all the time he needs. You hear me, Jo? I’ll be right here waiting for you, when you’re ready. I promise”

He wasn’t however. He was nowhere near when Jon finally broke away from the nightmarish cage of his mind five weeks later, screaming and crying and still reeling from it even as it faded, still thinking he was held captive by Roose. Even as he begged to see Robb his cousin was nowhere to be found, not answering his phone, when Jon needed him most.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well shit, y'all, this is it But don't worry, there's going to be a sequel! keep an eye out for Broken Doll, it's where thing's get REALLY fun ;)

**Author's Note:**

> depictions of violence/consensual torture  
> poor bdsm practices (though its not referred to as bdsm)  
> possible dub-con although Jon is consenting (just o be safe)  
> Ramsay being a sick manipulative fuck  
> just in general it's a dark fic so be prepared.
> 
> PLEASE tell me if I missed any warnings, and I'll add them immediately!


End file.
